


Into the Fire

by AMiserableLove



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMiserableLove/pseuds/AMiserableLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Savior. A fate she's been forced to acknowledge, a role she's destined to fulfill—the choice to refuse or accept it had never been hers. Savior. The word feels dirty on her tongue, the letters spelling it out flash in her head tauntingly as the syllables ring in her ears somewhat mockingly. Savior. She was born with the entire fate of a kingdom lying at her feet. She was born to ensure that good conquered evil. She was born a savior. But at what cost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is a war!time fic. There is going to be violence, sex, triggers and disturbing themes.
> 
> Also...and I hate doing this, as I think it's a major spoiler but I know I'll be yelled at if I don't, there's a MAJOR character death...as in nearly right off the bat. Also, again, warfic...no one is really safe.

* * *

Savior.

A fate she's been forced to acknowledge, a role she's destined to fulfill—the choice to refuse or accept it had never been hers.

Savior.

The word feels dirty on her tongue, the letters spelling it out flash in her head tauntingly as the syllables ring in her ears somewhat mockingly.

Savior.

She was born with the entire fate of a kingdom lying at her feet.

She was born to ensure that good conquered evil.

She was born a savior.

But at what cost?

* * *

_No, no, no, no!_

Emma repeats the word in her head over and over again like a desperate mantra.

_No._

She can't move, she can barely breathe, her entire body is locked and stiff—her limbs weak and helpless, her lips trembling and numb.

This isn't happening.

No.

_No, no, no, no._

Panic rushing through her fast; her mouth falls open slowly as a violent shudder takes over her entirely—chills wracking her body fast, pricks of dread skitter up her spine as a wave after wave of nausea rushes through her sickeningly.

_Oh God please no._

Eyes flashing to Pan's fallen form, she blinks back the sting of hot tears that threaten to spill over and scald down her cheeks as her gaze shifts from the lifeless demon-child and focuses on the dagger laying next to him—the sharp and pointed tip glistening and wet.

Red.

Deadly.

Dripping.

Blood.

Henry's blood.

_No, no, no, no._

Feeling her throat tightening—something deep and weighted settling in her gut—Emma shakes her head from side to side. Blinking rapidly; her eyelids flutter fast, her thoughts race, and her heart pounds as her eyes continue to burn hot and unforgiving.

_No._

She refuses to believe what she is seeing, refuses to admit to the fact that Pan had stabbed her son before her very eyes, refuses to acknowledge that she had done nothing to stop him.

Nothing at all.

She had been too late.

Bursting through the trees with Gold at her side, Henry's shouts for help echoing through the night, she had only been able to watch in horror as the poison tipped blade that Pan had held had sunk into Henry's stomach, the sound of Peter's manic laugh echoing in her ears as she had cried out. Falling to her knees and eyes widening in terror, she had tried—to no avail—to talk herself out of what she was seeing as Henry had slid to the ground—a single tear running down his smudged and dirty face.

After that, the rest had been a blur.

Gold had rushed by her, his eyes unfocused and his skin scaly and green—eerily resembling that of a crocodile's—the transformation had been somewhat terrifying and undeniably haunting. Something had simmered in the air, cracking electric and near tangible as an untouchable energy had radiated from the dark wizard in near visible waves—his intent to go after Pan, clear, dangerous and deadly. After months of desperate searching and frantic fighting it had all ended so quickly. From her place on the ground, she had seen a flash, a loud crack had shot through the night, followed by an enraged shout, and then finally, _finally_ a slow and pathetic weak cry. Pan had fallen to the ground, dead at the hands of Gold—the boy's once evil face twisted into an expression that had almost looked relieved…grateful...

_Peaceful._

And Henry…

Henry had laid on the ground, his blood seeping into the dirt and staining the scattered leaves crimson.

Fading.

_Dying._

"Mom."

It's a whisper, a plea, a statement, and it snaps her from her brief and tormented reverie.

"Mom."

He says it again like he believes it…like she deserves it…like he forgives her.

And it tears at her very soul.

Her throat tightening near suffocatingly; something tries to claw its way out of it; the pressure on her vocal chords is almost painful—the sensation miniscule compared to the torture that is currently ripping at her heart.

Henry.

_No, no, no, no._

"Mom."

He says it softly once more, his eyes watery and unfocused as his stare meets hers in a faraway gaze.

He's frightened, and confused and dying.

_Dying, dying, dying.  
_

Henry is dying.

How many times since she had come to Neverland had she been told that no one—man, child, sorcerer, or savior—could survive Pan's poisoned dagger? How many times had she been warned that its deadliness is irreversible...the most potent poison in all the realms.

No medicine can curb it, no magic can heal it, no kiss can stop its lethal fate.

The effects are final.

And now, her son is slipping away, fading from her at the hands of _Peter fucking Pan,_ because she was weak, because she hadn't played the sinister child's game right, because she had found her son too late.

So he's leaving her and there's nothing she can do.

Not a goddamned thing.

She's failed him.

Again.

_Oh God, oh god, oh god._

Pain.

It's nearly unbearable, the physical, mental, and emotional torment she feels. She can't stand it, she can't survive it. She's not strong enough.

_No._

Her hands, reaching out shakily, falter and then stop for a moment, wavering in the air uncertainly as doubt and indecision clouds her brain. She's afraid to touch him, afraid that if she caresses his pale skin, brushes away his dirty hair, and places her hands over his bleeding wound then that would make it all _real_. She'd have to accept his fate. So instead, for a few brief seconds she hesitates and merely kneels in the mud next to him, her eyes burning and glassy stare at his crumpled body as his curled up form begins to quiver and shake.

_No._

The pressure in her throat finally gives way, and through the roaring in her head and the buzzing in her ears she hears a scream—an anguished and tortured long drawn out shout. Vaguely she acknowledges that it's hers, briefly she notices the hot tears that had been brimming her eyes as they finally break through their barrier and burn and brand her skin—trailing down her cheeks they leave their stamp of grief and misery on her face.

_No._

"Henry." She chokes out his name, once, twice, and then she's moving, crawling through the dirt and gathering him in her arms. Holding his trembling body to her chest, she rocks him back and forth, stroking his hair, and whispering muffled words, broken promises, and soft, tender, too late endearments.

"Mom…Emma…" his voice is raspy, his lips are a frightening shade of bluish gray, and through the noise in her head she can hear a low rattle in his chest.

Shaking her head, vehemently trying to deny what she is seeing, she bites back a distressed sob. "No…shhh shhh shhh…it's okay. It's okay. Hey…kid…hey….I'm here. I'm not leaving you. You're gonna be fine. Just don't talk…we just have to…" Her words trail off as she whispers the assurances into his temple, her lips brushing the clammy skin there as she holds him tighter to her—part of her trying to believe what she's saying, while another part stubbornly tries to open her eyes to the harsh reality of the grim and dark scene before her. "We'll heal you…Gold...he's here...he just needs..." Her gaze drifts to the man in question and her eyes widen as she sees him, standing next to Pan's body, shake his head, his own stare is faraway and unreadable...his expression says what he does not. _He can't save him_. Refusing to accept it, she bites the inside of her cheek until she can taste blood; and focusing on the metallic burn she turns her attention back to Henry, dusting her lips over his head once again. "Hey...hey...you'll be okay. Just—just stay with me."

She can fix this.

She _has_ to fix this.

She's the goddamned savior.

"Can't." his voice has faded to a raspy murmur; the lingering strength in it slowly receding, as a gurgle sounds somewhere deep in his throat. And it's with the bubbled noise that she feels something inside of her begin to crack and break.

_No, no, no, no._

Slowly, she moves her hand to his abdomen, her fingers unsteady and numb press against the gash there, the feel of warm and sticky blood pushing past her fingertips and coating her skin seems almost surreal—the sensation bringing another sob to her lips, as her eyes blur and her vision darkens ominously.

She has to save him.

This is all just one big twisted fairytale.

And she's supposed to be magical.

The fucking product of True Love.

She can save him.

_Oh God._

"Hang on. You need to..let me just...dammit...you…I just…"

"Mom…it's okay. I'm not scared."

"Henry no…"

"I'm not. Just…sleepy. Don't cry...I'm not...I'm..."

She can't listen to him, it hurts too much, physically, emotionally, mentally, she can't take it. She's been beaten, abandoned, abused, and neglected. She's seen death before, experienced it in her own arms, but nothing, _nothing_ compares to the agony she's feeling at the moment. How can someone live through such unbearable unforgiving pain? Unable to grasp the severity of the situation, unwilling to let herself believe what is happening to him in her arms, her lips thin into a deep frown and her breath hitches and catches as she gasps for air.

_Oh God._

She can't do this.

"Emma…Mom…you…you have to promise me something..."

She pulls back slightly at the sound of his voice, the strength in his tone taking her aback a little and giving her a sense of hope that deep down she knows is false and misplaced. And trying to latch onto the feeling, she looks down into his ashen face, immediately regretting the decision when what's left of her breaking heart shatters as she sees the truth in his glazed and dilated eyes. He's almost gone. "Anything…oh God Henry please just stay with me."

"Good…evil…you…" he smiles at her a little, the corners of his lips quirking up just fractionally into a heartbreaking grin, as his eyes focus somewhere over her shoulder. He's so strong, so brave, so good...everything she's not. Suddenly, his chest begins to rise and fall rapidly and the rattling sound in his throat grows louder before the space in between his breaths lingers on uncomfortably long as he almost frantically struggles for air.

"Henry!"

She shakes him a little because she's not ready for this, good God not yet…she's not ready for this yet.

_No, no, no, no._

Snapping his eyes back to hers, for a few drawn out seconds his gaze clears, and recognition crosses his features as he is seemingly granted a moment of brief clarity. "Good always conquers evil. Savior…you're the.. _you_ have…to…" Moving his head a little, the action appearing somewhat definitive he gasps as another shudder runs through his body, stealing what's left of his breath for the moment and forcing him to attempt to take another shallow and pained one. "Good has to win...good always wins…you have to make sure."

_So brave, so selfless, so pure._

"Henry please, please just hold on."

"I'm sorry."

_He's sorry?_

Shaking her head, blowing out a trembling and whimpering breath, she lowers her forehead to his and allows herself to sob…truly and really sob. Dimly she's aware that he has nothing to be sorry for, faintly she recognizes that it is _she_ who should be apologizing for not being able to save him. But unable to express the words, instead she rocks him. She rocks him like she had never gotten the chance to before...holding him close and embracing him tightly she moves her body back and forth, dimly aware that it's the first and mostly likely the last time she's ever held him like this. His body sprawled across her lap, she can't help but think about all the moments in his life that she had missed out on—the fevers she never chased away, the bad dreams she never got to soothe. Her lips hovering against his cool skin, she cradles him to her body, kisses his cheeks, his hair, his temple and cries like she hasn't in years.

She feels lost.

Completely and truly lost.

"Don't leave me, please don't leave me. I love you. I love you. I love you. Please. Please. Please come back to me. I love you Henry."

Murmuring the pleas over and over again, tears blur her vision as she holds him to her, promising him that she'll never let go, whispering to him that she had made a mistake all those years ago, that she should have never given him up, that he's the one thing that she did right in her miserable life, that she needs him, that she loves him, that she can't do _this_ alone.

He's her son.

He's hers.

Hers.

_No, no, no, no._

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. Please come back to me," her voice drops, her tears continue to fall, "please."

It isn't until later, when she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder that she realizes that he's gone—his eyes are closed, his body is cold, his breathing has stopped.

He's dead.

And as the fact registers in her numbed brain, as the gravity of of it settles itself upon her, she let's out an anguished cry, collapses against him, and screams.

She barely feels the wave of magic that bursts from her very core, blanketing the island in a red hue and stirring the dormant pixie dust that laces the ground, causing the island to shake, other worldly portals to open, and the sky to light up in an iridescent and brilliant glow. No, she pays no attention to the magic that has been unleashed around her. Instead she allows herself to fall. Her brain shutting down, her heart irreversibly damaged, and her soul completely destroyed...

She welcomes the darkness that follows.

* * *

 

There's a low beeping noise coming from a machine near her head. The room is small and white and clean. Her hair feels freshly washed and smells of lavender. There are flowers, bright and colorful, on the small table next to her bed. The sun, yellow and cheerful, is shining through the window to her right.

And Henry is dead.

* * *

 

Emma screams because there's pain, so much pain. It's hurts. The haunting memories and cruel visions flash before her eyes in unwanted and rapid succession.

_Pain._

It's all she can think, breathe, and feel.

Because she's failed him.

Fail. Fail. Fail.

_Oh God._

There's a tight pressure on her arms; and hazily she wonders if someone is holding her down, vaguely she's aware that she's thrashing somewhat wildly. Her legs kick forward and as her hips thrusts upwards, something crashes to the ground—the sound of glass shattering cracks through the air.

But still, there's pain.

So much pain.

She wants to ignore it, run from it, hide from it.

But it won't go away.

So she screams.

She screams until her throat feels raw and her voice rings hoarse.

She wails her torment, her anguish ripping through her body and clawing at her soul.

Until abruptly, almost surprisingly, there's a shout, a muffled sob, the sound of an argument, a pinch and a numbing sting...

And then suddenly a buzzing quiet.

Her eyes feel heavy, her breathing slows, her heartbeat calms...

Soothing and welcoming darkness.

* * *

 

Her eyes flicker open.

The haziness gives way to focus and soon her gaze flits up to the face that's hovering over her.

Mary Margaret.

Her eyes are sad; the once resilient light in them is nearly dimmed completely. She's running her fingers through her hair and her voice is calm and soothing and quiet.

And Henry is still dead.

* * *

 

She's in a hospital…most likely in Storybrooke. Slowly, surely, she's figured that much out. Though how she got there, she's still not entirely sure.

She remembers being in Neverland. She can still see Henry's death, she can still hear his cries—she can almost feel the rush of despair and the shocking burst of magic that had coursed through her before the swift and fast wave of darkness that had followed hit her.

_Blissful and forgiving darkness._

Thinking of it, she closes her eyes once again and embraces the black and empty void once more.

* * *

 

Her eyes have been open for far too long.

She never stays awake long enough to fully allow her brain to start working. The longer she lets herself stay conscious, the easier it is to remember.

_Henry._

Feeling a tear trickle down her somewhat numb face, Emma lets out a muffled cry, her chest constricting painfully as the whimper gets caught in her throat. Wheezing, panic and alarm creeping up on her, she nearly sighs with relief when a young looking nurse suddenly appears at her side. Kind and sad brown eyes meet hers and in the next instant the anxiety begins to lessen and fade.

Suddenly, gratefully, she feels the haze and promise of sleep.

* * *

 

Mary Margaret is back again. David is with her. Their voices are muted and low—they appear to be pleading with her. Part of her, a part that is buried beneath the rubble of Henry's death, stirs to life, whispering that she should listen. But that part is small and weak and damaged, so instead of paying them any attention she lets her gaze drift upwards, allowing her vision to waver as she stares at the overhead lights.

Quietly she begins to count the cracks on the ceiling, because counting helps to take her mind off upsetting things and right now Mary Margaret and David's visit is upsetting her...

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven..._

_Seven times seven is forty-nine._

_Forty-nine times seven is...is...is..three hundred and forty three..._

_Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve..._

_Twelve times twelve is...is...one hundred and forty-four..._

_Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen..._

She can just make out the sound of a stifled sob. But before she can concentrate on it for too long, she's drifting away again in a swirl of numbers and figures and nonsense—away from her parents, away from her memories, away from her failures.

Far away.

* * *

 

David is sleeping in a chair next to her bed. He's clutching a familiar knitted blanket to his chest, holding onto it so tightly that Emma wonders if he plans on ever letting it go.

Even in sleep his expression appears tortured and weary.

She stares at him for a long moment before closing her eyes once more.

* * *

 

Neal's eyes are red rimmed and glassy, his fingers, rough and calloused, stroke her limp hand in a gesture that she's sure is meant to be soothing.

His voice sounds hoarse and his words are full of empty promises.

* * *

 

Her room is dark and the scent of rum and sea lingers in the air.

* * *

 

Sometimes, when her drugs are beginning to wear off and the doctors and nurses think she's still asleep, occasionally she allows herself a brief moment to listen to them talk. Lately they speak about the same things—their tones worried and undeniably frightened.

_Dark magic, a grieving queen and an evil that is rapidly rising._

Something is coming...threatening to send them all back _home_.

She wonders for a moment, as the words fade into the background of her damaged brain, where exactly home is.

And then, almost immediately, she reminds herself that _lost girls_ have no home.

She has nothing.

* * *

 

Something is happening.

Her eyes flutter open as she hears a shout followed by a loud shuddering bang. A low rumble sounds and her entire bed shakes for a moment as the ceiling rattles threateningly above. The lights are flickering intermittently, small cracks are running down the walls, and the floor looks less than stable as her gaze sweeps across her small and wavering room. People are gathered around her bed, their voices are frantic, and hushed and concerned.

Some faces she recognizes, some she's not so sure about.

But it might be the drugs.

The drugs cloud her mind.

The drugs make her forget.

She wishes she had more drugs.

She feels too aware. The pressure in her chest is beginning to hurt and there are whispers in her head that are starting to get too loud and too demanding for her liking.

Faintly she sees a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Mary Margaret is suddenly by her bed and Emma can see that she's been crying again. She's always crying. Always so upset. She needs drugs. But not hers. _No._ Emma needs her drugs...Mary Margaret can get her own.

Drawing her wavering focus back to her mother, she watches her mouth move rapidly and she can't help but notice how scared she seems—her blue eyes are round and terrified and imploring. But even though she looks unbalanced and more than a little anxious, her voice is soft and firm and steady. The gentle sound gives her a headache—the dull pain creeping up on her even as she tries to shake it away.

"Emma..."

She attempts to tune her out, but Mary Margaret is being more insistent than normal and soon enough she's forced to listen to her confusing and strange rambling words. From what she can make out, she's speaking of Henry's death in Neverland and Regina not being able to control her grief and pain. She's enacted another curse to take them back to the Enchanted Forest, to make them pay...

And hearing it all Emma can't help but cringe.

She deserves to pay.

She deserves to suffer.

"Emma you have to wake up...there's not much time...it's coming...it's nearly here...we need you sweetheart. Wake up honey it's going to take us soon."

Somewhat abruptly her breathing hitches in her throat, and her heart begins to pound near painfully against her chest—the beat and distant thuds echo in her ears.

_Henry._

He had always wanted to go to the Enchanted Forest.

_Fairytale Land._

She shakes her head violently at the thought, her breaths drawing in shorter and shallower; dimly she's aware that the gasping and raspy noises she hears are coming from her.

"Emma?"

It hurts.

She wants it all to go away.

Far, far, away.

"Emma snap out of it! Please wake up!"

When a nurse rushes in, looking nearly as frazzled as Mary Margaret and considerably more frightened, she practically weeps with gratitude when she sees the other woman reach for her IV.

"No...no more." Mary Margaret's words are definitive, her tone unwavering; and hearing it Emma wants to curse her out, wants to scream and yell and cry foul.

She needs her medicine.

But the nurse, the same one that's been with Emma since her foggy mind put two and two together and came up with the conclusion that she was indeed in Storybrooke, merely shakes her head sadly and leaning over, she whispers something in Mary Maragaret's ear—her words are hushed and low, her tone soft and apologetic.

For a moment, she sees Mary Margaret's resolve waver, for a few brief seconds she feels hope; watching closely as something that looks like regret and mirrors her own feelings of failure flashes over her mother's features before her eyes meet hers.

"Okay." she whispers softly to the nurse at her side, nodding her head once. "Okay."

And because something inside of her is stirring, threatening to surface, Emma allows herself to hold Mary Margaret's eyes, —a brief moment of clear cohesiveness brightening her gaze—before quickly she refocuses her attention on the nurse, feeling the edges of her mind begin to dim once again.

Relief.

Sweet relief is coming.

This time when the darkness washes over her and she allows herself to sneak off to that corner of her brain where she can hide from everything; she begs, wishes, prays that she won't wake up again…that she'll stay in that empty and protected place forever.

She means it.

"It's time Emma..."

* * *

 

The room she wakes up in is chilled, but the heavy blanket that's been placed over her is warm. Something is different. She can feel it in the air. But tired, weary, and broken she merely burrows further into her bed and closes her eyes once more.

* * *

 

They speak of war.

She hears them whispering in hushed tones.

When they aren't checking on her, bathing her and feeding her bitter liquids laced with strong and potent drugs, she listens to their frightened tones and lazily tries to place their concerned voices.

_War._

The threat is real, an evil is rising.

* * *

 

She's still not exactly sure where she is, part of her really doesn't care, though words of The Enchanted Forest and a terrifying curse echoes in her brain.

Dimly she hears a familiar voice speaking to her about good conquering evil, faintly she feels the beginnings of fear stir.

* * *

 

It's starting to take longer for the potions to take effect and Emma finds the fact both frustrating and telling. The time in between her clouded haze has grown farther and farther apart and she finds herself awake more often than not, staring blankly at the walls around her, waiting for someone to come and put her out of her conscious suffering.

Sometimes she wishes they'd fuck up the dose.

She assumes if she took too much of a good thing than maybe just maybe she'd be put out of her misery once and for all.

And as a mop of brown hair, trusting hazel eyes, and a familiar young face flashes before her eyes she only feels slightly guilty.

But only slightly.

* * *

 

Waking up with a start; the sights and sounds of Neverland fading with her awareness, she hastily wipes at the tears streaking her face and pushes aside the guilt that gnaws at her conscious. Her eyes scanning the darkened area before her, she lets her gaze linger on the fire on the opposite side of the room—the embers glowing a soft and warm orange.

The air feels different.

A familiar scent, one that reminds her of the ocean—crashing waves and whipping winds—hovers above her. And for a moment she can see piercing blue eyes and the quick tilt of a smirking mouth. Sinking down under her thick blankets she cowers for a moment, curious if her mind is playing tricks on her.

* * *

 

The nurse with kind brown eyes still visits her.

Only now she has different clothes. Her scrubs and comfortable looking footwear have been replaced with a simple cream blouse and a loose and flowing brown skirt. She wears a red scarf in her long dark hair and her demeanor is slightly more nervous than before but still soothing nonetheless.

Her name is Anna.

Emma never speaks to her; still craving her much needed drug induced cloud she finds it easier to stay quiet during her visits, keeping her mouth shut and merely waiting for her to slip the familiar pale powder into her drink before she leaves. But even as she stubbornly remains quiet, hanging onto her silence, Anna speaks to her, chatting away as if they're close friends having a two-sided conversation.

She doesn't tell her anything that Emma hasn't already figured out on her own...mostly she talks about the weather and the food she's brought her. Occasionally she'll speak of a young man named Tristan who sometimes works in the kitchens, her cheeks flushing pink and her eyes dipping down to the floor every time she mentions his name.

Today is different though.

Today she speaks of the impending war, of the atrocities she's already seen, of her fears and concerns—there's a sadness in her tone, a touch of defiance in her eyes.

Her hands swiftly working through Emma's freshly washed hair, and fixing it into a thick braid, she hears her sigh from her place behind her, the sound so soft and quiet that she almost misses it.

"You have to be wondering...when they're clear, I can see the questions in your eyes Emma..." her words trail off slowly and Emma stiffens her spine and listens closely as Anna takes in a deep breath, almost as if she's debating continuing—hesitantly she acknowledges the part inside of her that hopes she does. "We're at Lord Worthington's manor...he was a good man...loyal to the throne even during this land's darkest days. The grounds were untouched by the original curse and are currently enchanted with a cloaking spell to keep us hidden from the queen's wrath. The manor serves as a safe house for many and a training camp for new recruits." She pauses a moment, her words hanging in the air briefly before she sucks in another breath and somewhat determinedly continues on."Runners go out nearly every day...bringing men and woman and children to the estate." Her hands stilling in her hair, Emma's nearly tempted to turn to her and silently encourage her words, her brief explanation awakening a curiosity inside of her that she wants to both stifle and explore. "Some of the new soldiers are so young. God Emma...it's scary. They look like babies...seeing them holding a sword...it's sickening...and wrong...and..." the bed shifts behind her and finally giving into the urge and allowing the action Emma turns her head, watching as Anna gathers her things quickly before placing her drug laced cup of water on the table at her side. "I've probably said too much...anyway, we're safe for now. We have many skilled and talented warriors on the grounds...the manor is also currently housing most of the royal guard as well the prince and princess...as always they hope to see you for dinner..." she hesitates her words cutting off awkwardly as she looks at her like she wants to say more.

And tensing further Emma realizes that she _wants_ her to, her interest has been piqued, and while she wishes that it wasn't she can't help the unwanted feeling. Something inside of her has shifted with Anna's words—whispers, reminders, and forgotten memories are threatening to emerge from the dark and protected place in her broken mind.

_Good always wins._

A glimmer of anger shining in her eyes, Anna stares at her for a moment longer—studying her, reading her—before closing her mouth quickly. Her lips thinning tightly she shoots her an indecipherable look, and then turning on her heel she walks towards the heavy wooden door at the far side of her room and pulls it open, murmuring a soft goodnight as it closes behind her.

It isn't until she's left the room, after she's downed her water and settled back against her pillows that Emma realizes with slight wonder and a small amount of disbelief that the prince and princess that Anna had casually mentioned are Mary Margaret and David.

* * *

 

"Emma…we can't keep you like this forever…it's not right. Sooner or later you're going to have to wake up and face—face what's happened. And when you do, I'll be here for you. David and I both will be."

She likes when Mary Margaret strokes her hair, it's soothing and familiar—her touch is gentle and her voice is always soft and light. Her one time friend visits her nearly every night, most mornings, and some afternoons; and her presence is usually comforting when she's not tentatively trying to coax her out of her hazy stupor. Staring at the flames crackling in the fireplace across the room, Emma silently tries to tune her out as she drones on about her fragile state of mind, wary of the way her throat tightens fractionally as Mary Margaret's plea-filled words sink in slowly, penetrating the drug induced barrier that has numbed her emotions and weakened her thoughts.

She's not ready.

She's not sure if she'll ever be.

"There's a war coming…and-and I don't think we can win it without you. Please…"

_War.  
_

It's all she hears anyone talking about lately, the whispers drifting up from the floors below and filtering down from the rooms above

_Deadly. Brutal. War._

The final battle.

_Good vs evil.  
_

Suddenly tired of the dark and depressing words, and unwilling to listen to them any longer, she turns her head away while blinking back the hot prick of tears; dimly wondering if those around her are still stupid enough to actually believe her a savior.

* * *

 

Three months.

Earlier in the day she heard a young girl and her older companion speaking quietly as they delivered her a tray of food.

It's been three months months since Regina had enacted the curse.

Three months since the residents of Storybrooke had been picked up and unceremoniously dropped back down in the Enchanted Forest.

Three months since they've been forced to live a lifestyle almost long forgotten.

_Three months._

Staring up at the ceiling, Emma wonders how much longer it'll be until Regina comes for her.

* * *

 

Lately she's taken to moving about her room.

She still doesn't speak—sometimes she wonders if she even remembers how, but then she'll wake up crying out Henry's name and quite suddenly she's bitterly reminded that indeed she does remember.

Her short walks aren't really a big deal, at least not to her. It's more out of sheer boredom than anything, her legs, wobbly and weak, practically weep with relief the first time she stumbles out of her bed on her own.

Curious at first, she moves about the room, fingering the small objects—delicate statues, ancient looking books, unfamiliar portraits—that have been placed on the tables and walls that decorate her quarters, taking in the intricate details of the dark and grand furnishings around her as she gains control of her unsteady limbs again.

It feels good to move.

Her body unused to being dormant for such a long period of time slowly regains its sense of balance.

She can tell by the way Mary Margaret smiles at her and Anna studies her closely that this small step is considered progress.

* * *

 

There are voices outside of her room.

Standing near the window that overlooks the sprawling grounds, her fingers twisting in the soft fabric of the heavy drapes that adorn it, Emma turns at the sound, her eyes focusing on her slightly ajar door as the voices grow louder, threatening to turn into heated shouts.

She can hear David rather clearly—his words a low rumble—and as she squints across the room and focuses past the door she can just make out the shapes of Leroy standing next to Mary Margaret—their stances appear defensive almost as if they're preventing someone entry.

And she realizes with slight wonder and some disbelief that it isn't _their_ voices that have caused her body to go somewhat numb and has made her blood run cold even as her heart pounds painfully hard against her chest in rapid and unrelenting beats.

No, the voice that stands out the most, even riled up, is smooth as silk and heavily accented.

When in Neverland she had quite often ignored that voice, grown to despise that voice, and then, eventually, had come to trust it.

"Bloody hell! _Enough_. If you can't do it than I will!"

Her door is pushed open hard, the heavy wood banging against the wall behind it and echoing loudly throughout the otherwise silent room and Emma can feel her eyes widen in shock as Hook storms in. He's shed his long leather coat and pirate attire and instead wear's thick black pants, and what appears to be a dark silver armored shirt— _chainmail_ —there's a sword at his side and an odd looking metal shield practically clings to his back. He looks as if he's about to run into battle and watching as he clenches his fist, his eyes fierce and violent finding hers immediately, Emma wonders if perhaps that's what he's doing—his anger clearly directed right at her as fury radiates from him in near tangible waves.

He appears to be absolutely seething.

"Oh, well, so the princess has decided to drag herself out of bed today has she?" He practically purrs the words, his sharp brows rising high on his forehead, as his good hand relaxes and rests on the hilt of his sword.

"Killian…" Mary Margaret's tone holds a warning as she follows him in, her eyes concerned and wary snap to Emma's— curiosity and apology both lingering in her stare.

It takes Emma a moment to register and place the name her mother murmurs.

_Killian._

"Apologies your highness but I believe your daughter's days of resting comfortably while the lot of us risk our life and limbs are over."

"I don't believe that's your call to make Jones." David speaks up quietly but surprisingly his tone lacks the venom it usually holds when directed towards the calculating and defiant man.

"Now you see, prince, I believe that's where you're wrong….for far too long she's been catered too. The war has been underway for weeks... _months_...now. Your people have been fighting, fighting and dying while she stays in here comfortable as ever, resting on her sodding bed of fine silks and…"

"That's enough."

It's a new voice that breaks the tension, and shooting her gaze behind Hook, turning his cruel words over in her too clear mind, Emma's eyes shift with some surprise to Neal—his expression is pained and his stare is shooting daggers at the pirate as Hook slowly walks into the room, making his way towards her and causing her to she take a tentative step back. And as her back hits the hard wall behind her, faintly she hears an angry voice in her head, something inside of her protesting her obvious show of weakness as she cowers to the man who is slowly and deliberately stalking her.

"Baelfire how kind of you to join us…we were just…."

"You were just bullying a sick woman. I said that's enough…she doesn't need this."

"Like hell she doesn't. I repeat, there's a war going on and people are dying. People are fighting for a kingdom that like it or not she is very much apart of….her son was very much apart of."

At the mention of Henry, her gaze flies back to his—turbulent sea and stormy sky colliding as their stares lock briefly.

"People are dying Emma."

Shaking her head, she makes a move to leave, unsure where she's plans on going as she's never been outside the confines of her room, but before she can attempt to escape him and the prying eyes of the people who have gathered behind him…Mary Margaret, David, Neal, Leroy…he snakes a hand out fast and grabs her arm, pulling her towards him with a snapping and jerky tug.

"Dammit Swan you're stronger than this!"

She wants to fight him, she wants to shake him off and knock him to the ground and kick him while he's down; but her time spent wasting away in bed has made her undeniably frail, and instead she's left weakly attempting to push him away—her breathing coming out in short and shallow bursts as she presses trembling fingers to his unyielding chest.

Ignoring her resistance, he simply drags her closer, the strength and hardness with which he yanks her towards him bringing a whimper to her lips even as red fury clouds her brain. "Henry thought you were stronger than this! He had faith in you. What do you think he'd say if he saw you like this? Feeble and weak and still mourning his death months later as the rest of us risk our lives to stop the misplaced cruelty and vengeance wrought down upon countless innocents by his less sane…" He pauses, seemingly searching for words before cursing under his breath and heaving an exaggerated sigh, "whatever the bloody hell Regina was to him. Dammit Emma, he believed in you!"

"SHUT UP!"

Her voice cracks through the air, raspy and hoarse, and as it rings out she can hear Mary Margaret audibly gasp as the sound of Leroy swearing quietly whispers in the air. Dimly, she realizes with some misplaced sense of fascination that David is holding Neal back, his eyes wide and curious are studying her and Hook intently and she can't help but wonder what has shifted in their relationship that David hasn't turned Neal loose and immediately lunged for Hook's throat himself.

"Emma…"

Hook's voice, velvet and soft, rips her focus back, and replaying his jarring accusations in her head, she feels her body begin to violently shake. "You don't get to say his name. You don't get to judge me." She croaks the words out, her throat scratchy and raw—her lips dry and parched.

"There's a war Emma."

"I don't give a damn!"

"Well you bloody well should! Your son trusted you to do what is right!"

"No!" She screams it, the word ripping up from her very core and tumbling through her protesting throat. And pushing against him with all of the dwindling strength she has, she practically bounces off of him and nearly falls backwards as she loses her balance and stumbles away. "No!"

"Open your goddamned eyes!"

"No!"

"This bloody kingdom needs you."

"I don't owe this kingdom shit!"

"You're failing him!"

It's like a slap in the face, a cold and unforgiving bucket of water.

And she hates him at that moment.

Hates him more than she's ever hated anyone in her entire life. Hates him because he's cruel and ruthless. Hates him because he couldn't possibly understand. Hates him for saying Henry's name like he's worthy of it. Hates him for making her remember.

Hates him because he's right.

"Get out!" She yells it; her tone shrill, her eyes blurred and crazed. "Get out, get out, get out!" Turning from him, she brushes by and seeing the anguished looks on the faces of those gathered before her, she suddenly snaps.

_No, no, no, no._

She whimpers.

She screams.

She wails.

She falls.

A heaping sobbing mess on the cool stone floor she bends over, collapses into herself and cries like she hasn't in days, weeks, months. She cries like she hasn't since the day she had lost Henry…

Since the day she had failed him.

_Fail. Fail. Fail._

And as Hook's words ring in her ears, speaking of the son who had been so brave and true, bringing her failures to light all over again, she feels the deep wounds in her heart open up once more as something hot and burning tears at her soul.

She's losing him all over again.

She can hear his desperate words, she can feel his intense conviction, she can see his unwavering belief.

And it hurts.

It hurts too much.

Thrashing somewhat wildly when Hook's eyes narrow, and he makes a move to touch her, she crawls away, yelling up at him and shouting for him to leave, to go away, to never show his goddamn face again—her normally unused voice, cracking and breaking with the tiring effort.

He doesn't listen, instead he shuffles towards her and crouches low and looking her straight in the eye, he holds her watery gaze—the sound of Mary Margaret pleading to them and David finally moving to action barely discernible as Hook extends his hand.

"You are stronger than this."

His words fall flat—his show of support meaningless.

She screams again. Lunging forward, she tackles him, clawing her nails down his face and feeling some sick sense of satisfaction when she sees the angry red welts and bloodied streaks ripping across his skin. The sound of his surprised grunts and the feel of his hook and hand bracing her flailing arms only briefly registering before fading entirely as she continues to try to attack him, ignoring the shouts and frantic flurry of action behind her as she howls her pain and delivers blow after weak blow on his barely resisting form.

"I will kill you, you son of a bitch! I will kill you! You are nothing! Nothing! I will kill you! Don't you ever say his name again! Ever! I will kill you! Just—just stay away from me!"

Something strong and hot burns deep inside of her, a sleepy energy threatening to roar to life as warmth sparks at her fingertips, hinting at the possibility of undiluted magic and promising sweet revenge.

She feels strong, powerful, until quickly, suddenly, the feeling fades and she's left with nothing but her grief.

When Anna rushes in, pushing the bodies that have crowded around her away, her gentle and soothing voice barely breaks through the noisy shouts and accusations that are ringing in her head.

She 's spiraling out of control fast.

_Falling, falling, falling._

Dimly she feels soft hands on her wet cheeks; vaguely she registers the sensation of the burning anger ebbing as something cool and wet is placed at her lips, a bitter and welcoming liquid slithers down her throat and almost immediately a sense of calmness overtakes her body.

_Falling._

Later as she quietly lays in bed, listening to the pounding rain outside hammering against the manor walls while watching the roaring fire leap and crackle and burn, she can't help but acknowledge the part of her that is steadily flickering to life, forced to unwanted awareness as the gravity of the world she's been thrust into finally sinks in.

* * *

 

Staring at the high vaulted ceiling, the effects of the potion Anna had given her finally fading, Emma vows to herself that she'll never hate a man more than she hates Killian Jones.

His taunting voice whispering in her ears, his accusing eyes flashing in her head...

_She hates him._

The tingle in her brain whispers lie, but the hardening of her heart claims it's true.

* * *

 

Emma walks the manor grounds, the sky is gray and the temperature is cool. It feels like late fall and by the way the mud crunches beneath her feet, the scent of pine lingers, and the leaves filter to the ground she believes her guess to be fairly accurate.

The fresh air feels good on her pale skin.

The sun is bright to her sensitive eyes.

As they walk, Anna murmurs words of encouragement to her, her hands fiddling together nervously as she chats idly, all the while steering her away from the prying eyes of the busy people that move across the property as she discreetly herds her in the opposite direction from where the new recruits are currently training.

The sounds of swords clashing and shouted curses echoing throughout the estate, adrenaline, blood, and fear lace the air.

The war is coming closer.

* * *

 

"I'd like to help out."

She has to give Mary Margaret credit, the jug of water she'd been holding shakes dangerously in her hands; but not a drop splashes over the cup she refills as her words break through the silence that had fallen over them after Mary Margaret had finished delivering her slightly trivial news—discussing a few new horses that had been brought in, as well as some much needed medical supplies from a nearby tiny village.

It still amazes her, the way the once barren and deserted Enchanted Forest is rumored to be bustling with people—villages and towns apparently popping up everywhere as the land divides itself and the people align themselves with whichever side they believe to be the best option.

Turning her attention to her water, she waits for Mary Margaret to respond to her statement—her drinks are pure now, the laced potions having recently dwindled off until eventually they had stopped altogether. And while she had spent many nights shaking in bed, writhing and sweating with her withdrawal symptoms—the sound of Anna's soft voice soothing her, the feel of gentle hands comforting her— she had never mentioned it to Mary Margaret...and her mother had never commented about it to her.

Breaking her little habit had apparently, through some unspoken agreement, been silently decided upon between the two of them.

And she was glad for it.

Her mind clearer and more stable...she felt balanced, more focused...the need to make good on her promise to Henry growing stronger with each passing day.

"Oh?"

"Something simple…I'm not ready to…" she pauses, her eyes avoiding the curious blue stare directed towards her as she falters with her words. "I'm not ready for much because…well...I'm just not ready yet…but I'd still like to do something to help."

Mary Margaret's smile is quick, the tears in her eyes obvious. "Of course."

* * *

 

The kitchens are her favorite place to work, which is strange because back in the _real world_ she couldn't cook for shit.

The women there generally leave her alone and the men don't dare look at her. She doesn't spend much time trying to dissect the latter observation but a part of her can't help but wonder if David had pulled some kind of over-protective parenting bull before she had begun her duties—it's odd and more than a little suspicious the way anything with penis seems to stiffen and falter in her presence.

Emma spends her days covered in flour, kneading dough, and standing in front of a stifling wood burning oven—her hair, tied back tightly, sticks to her neck with sweat, curling and frizzing as she hovers near the hot and open flames. Generally she ignores the talk of the on-going war. Unsure if she's ready to hear the vicious details of the battles already fought, she works hard at the jobs given to her while silently trying to convince herself she's doing her part.

Idly, she wonders if she'll ever get used to it—this simple and surreal life. Her clothes, a faded long skirt, a fitted blue lace-up tunic, and soft and sturdy boots, remind her of some kind of peasant attire from a Tudors era movie, and the conversations that tend to take place around her are so out of her comfort zone that sometimes she needs to pinch herself to make sure it's all real—almost certain she'll wake up in a hospital with running water and electricity in over abundance.

She doesn't miss the way that people stare at her. Often she hears the term _Savior_ whispered behind her back. And she can't help but notice, how many times, the word is spoken with scorn and contempt and mild disbelief.

She doesn't blame them though; she supposes she'd be rather upset too, if the one person believed to save the entire kingdom, had set to work baking bread, and frosting cakes.

Still, she can't bring herself to care.

_Much._

* * *

 

"Tell me what happened…after Neverland."

Mary Margaret visits her in the kitchens whenever she has some free time. It still shocks Emma, the pixie like woman's drastic transformation. The meek school teacher from Storybrooke and the doting mother in Neverland have almost completely faded, replaced by a fierce and formidable warrior.

"What would you like to know?" she asks carefully, picking up a fresh apple and playing with it idly, her bitten-down nails scratching it's shining red skin.

"What happened to Regina…how did..." Emma waves her hand around her somewhat frustratingly, gesturing to the manor and hinting at what lays beyond it, " _this_...how did this all happen."

Breathing in deeply, apparently taking a moment to consider her question, Mary Margaret places the fruit back on the flour covered table. Leaning over, her elbows resting on the hard surface, white powder now coating her already dirty clothes, she stares her right in the eye—her gaze searching and somewhat penetrating as Emma methodically pounds the dough in front of her, never glancing away.

It's almost as if she's trying to see if she's strong enough to handle her answers, searching her gaze to see if the broken and weak-minded woman still exists.

_She does._

She's just hiding her as best as she can.

"After Henry…" her mother pauses, her lips turning down for a moment as she shakes her head slowly—pain flickering across her tight and somewhat tired looking features. "After Henry died, something happened. You…you unleashed something strong…powerful. I've never felt such raw energy before Emma. The land shifted and changed and the pixie dust that littered the ground practically came to life, stirring and moving and taking shape before our eyes. It all happened so fast really. One moment you were laying over Henry's body, Regina was staring at the two of you as still as a statue and the next there was a portal open. Gold mentioned something about how you had done it without realizing it, but we didn't have much time for any further explanation…everything was so unbalanced it felt as if the entire island was collapsing inside itself. We grabbed you, Henry, gathered our group, and leapt."

Her fingers digging into the dough, Emma turns her words over in her head, trying to conjure up the memory but only seeing despairing shades of black and gray—muffled voices whisper in her head as a blur of images fade before her eyes.

"We ended up in Storybrooke…you…you were unwell so we took you to the hospital. And um, I guess, we kept you there because you weren't…" trailing off she shoots her an apologetic smile, the atmosphere tense and uncomfortable, as they both seemingly recall her stay in the hospital with different but no less depressing memories.

"It's okay." Emma whispers, carefully acknowledging her manic and mental breakdown as she gives a quick nod. "It's okay. Just tell me what happened after that."

"Something changed that day in Neverland. Gold's powers decreased…he became a shadow of the former wizard he once was...he's almost weak now, it's like everything was sucked from him, all his magic was nearly completely drained. Regina was a different story. It was like she had fed off of whatever had happened, her magic seemed more… _powerful_...stronger. The first few days after we were back she walked around the town almost as if nothing had happened. She didn't even show up at Henry's burial."

Her words hit Emma straight in the gut, the simple realization that her son hadn't had either of his mothers at his graveside a sickening thought...the fact that there is no tombstone for her to visit in this new land even more depressing.

"It was as if everything about her was immaculate and in place and there was this dark glow around her…it was scary." Picking up the apple again, Mary Margaret stares at it hard, her eyes narrowing and the clear blue darkening fractionally. "We tried you know. To comfort and console her. But she refused to accept our help. She made it known that she blamed us for what happened to Henry…that she planned revenge, and seeing how dark and powerful she was, I didn't doubt her intent. After awhile, she didn't keep her new curse a secret. She flaunted it around town, mocking the people and hinting at when she'd activate it.. She thrived off of everyone's fear and confusion. She actually started building her army before the curse ever even took affect. People were frightened and easily swayed. To be honest..." Clearing her throat, she straightens her shoulders her hard gaze meeting Emma's. "At first I was surprised she didn't try to go after you. She was so angry and violent and you were virtually defenseless. We had Gold and Blu—err—Mother Superior place a protective spell around you and the hospital with their combined magic but I think she could have broken it if she had really wanted to."

Rolling the dough aside, Emma looks up at that, Mary Margaret's dark words giving her a dull and thumping headache. "Then why didn't she?"

Tears cloud her eyes and a tremble quivers at her lips before she answers, her voice low and soft echos her pain. "She blames us for what happened to Henry, Emma. She truly believes we're somehow at fault. Killing you while you were unaware wouldn't have been enough. She wants to break us, she wants us strong and hopeful and resistant. She wants us to fight so that when she has us within her grasp...she can crush us and then truly enjoy her revenge."

It's fucked up.

But a dark part of her perks up at Mary Margaret's words, after all, she understands Regina's feelings of pain and loss...of anger and despair.

It's fucked up…but it makes sense.

Cruel, unnecessary, callous, sense.

"Emma…since Neverland, since you've woken up and started feeling better…"

"I don't." she interrupts Mary Margaret before she has the chance to stop herself, her voice coming out clipped and harsh as her words send a prickle of annoyance dancing down her spine.

"What?"

"I don't feel better…everyday I wake up the same as before…empty and broken. I'm not healed, I'm not better, nothing has magically been fixed Mary Margaret.…I'm merely surviving…I'm simply trying to do what…what he…." her voice wavers and cracks as Henry's face flashes before her eyes—trusting and innocent—and for a moment she's terrified she's going to crumble and cry. Too many people have seen her break, she won't allow another person, friend or foe, to see her so weak. "I'm trying, _for him_. But I'm not better…I'm pretty sure I'll never be...but I'm taking it slow and I'm trying."

"Of course." Her mother looks thoroughly admonished. Her eyes filled with regret, her features pinched and drawn, her hand twitches slightly, almost as if she wants to reach out to her, almost as if she's tempted to pet her and soothe her as she had before...when drugs had kept her numb and compliant. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean to imply…."

"Forget it." Shaking her head, Emma glances back down at her work-station, her heart thumping painfully slow against her chest, as her throat narrows and her fingers tremble. "What were you saying before?"

There's a heavy and tense silence between them before, glancing over her shoulder at the women working only a few feet away, pretending not to listen, she continues on, her voice lower, her eyes searching. "Your magic…is it still there? Neverland seems to have effected the three of you somehow—Gold's powers have weakened so much and Regina's have grown. Seeing as though you seem to be the source of the magic that got us home…have—have you felt anything since then?"

Remembering back to the night when Hook had confronted her in her room, spitting accusations around and invoking Henry's memory as he had attempted to get through to her, she can almost feel the hot energy that had sparked deep inside of her, skittering through her body and threatening to shoot out of her fingertips in a burst of pure power.

She had only felt such undiluted energy a few times in her life...

When she had broken the original curse, when Cora had tried to take her heart, when she and Regina had saved the town, and directly after Henry had died in Neverland.

Something whispers inside of her that it's still there, waiting for the right moment to be unlocked and unleashed.

_Savior_ , a voice taunts in hissing tones.

"No…no I haven't felt anything at all.

* * *

 

"Tristan leaves tomorrow."

Glancing up from where her eyes had been locked, staring at the flames as they licked hotly against the burning logs, Emma shifts on her place on the ground where she's resting against the foot of her bed. Shooting her gaze to Anna, she watches as the younger woman mends a torn shirt—her hands are steady and quick, her voice wavering and small.

It takes her a moment to place the name, probably longer than it should, and suddenly remembering how fondly Anna had spoke of the man who occasionally works in the kitchens, she sits up a little straighter, her voice soft as she encourages more information from the seemingly distraught girl. "Where's he going?"

Looking up at the question, Anna frowns; her black hair is a tangled mess of curls around her face and her brown eyes are glassy with tears—the pain swimming behind them is practically undeniable. They're not friends, not truly. Anna had merely taken care of her when she was incapable of taking care of herself, and Emma can't help but think her visits come more from a sense of duty than want. They rarely talk about anything significant, but still, somehow, the young nurse is one of the closest people to her. And seeing her so upset, Emma can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her—something clenching deep in her gut as she takes in the brunette's expression of unmasked despair.

"Captain Jones and the werewolf have been dispatched with a mission, they're moving a small band up North, Tristan has been training with that unit and he's set to go with them. Fighting there is said to be brutal…the queen's men are rumored to be nothing short of barbaric…they burned an entire village to the ground just last week…nearly everyone died in the flames…and those who didn't more than likely wished they had. Especially the women. The healing tents have been flooded lately…when I made my rounds the other day…my God Emma...you should have seen some of the injuries coming in." Her fingers pausing in her work, Emma watches as she draws her lower lip into her mouth, chewing on it nervously—her eyes faraway as she stares off into the distance. "I think I'd rather be dead than face the abuse that some of those poor girls had to endure. No woman should ever have to…" she trails off for a moment her words breaking off on a sad sigh.

Sickened by the implications, Emma turns away from her, even as the younger girl pays her no attention and continues on, her stomach churning threateningly as Anna paints vivid and unwanted visions of bruised and battered bodies damaged by the war—woman who had lost everything and children who had never stood a chance.

_Regina._

For a moment she can't believe the woman is truly capable of causing such unnecessary pain…but as her mind wanders to the countless tales she's been told…she wonders if perhaps she hadn't given her thirst for power and her knack for cruel games enough credit.

She wonders what Henry would think.

After Anna leaves her for the night—a small nearly apologetic smile gracing her lips as she pulls the door closed behind her—Emma tucks her blankets tightly around her chilled body, thinking of innocence lost while pensively wishing for peace.

* * *

 

"You were a good mom." Neal sips the drink in front of him, his eyes roaming the great hall as dinner is served and a crowd forms in front of the food tables; woman and children first, the noise from the people gathered buzzes into a hum of mindless chatter.

They have a strained relationship, her and Neal. They're not friends, they're definitely not fucking, she's not entirely sure what they are or why he even attempts to seek her out. Their conversations never end well and the doubt and worry that mask his eyes is more than a little annoying.

"Henry loved you…anyone could see that…you were a good mom."

Looking up from her plate of fruit and cheeses as he repeats the statement, Emma stares at him unblinkingly, her eyes roaming over his sun-lined face, and taking in the sight of his weary appearance. She knows his words are meant to comfort her, that they are supposed to reassure her, but they actually do the opposite—highlighting the fact that she had barely had the chance to give the kid what he had rightfully deserved.

A home.

Decent parents.

Unyielding love.

She had abandoned him.

They both had.

Standing up without a word, she moves away from the table, the sound of her chair scraping against the floor nearly drowned out by the noise that surrounds them.

Walking away she doesn't look back, ignoring the sound of her name called out after her as she pushes away the slight feeling of nausea that rises in her throat.

* * *

 

There's a thin line of sweat trickling down from Emma's forehead and collecting above her upper lip, her arms and legs ache and her abdomen burns so hot she's not sure how much longer she can stand the heat. But even so, still, she pushes on, welcoming the hurt and pain as she huffs out a short breath and winces past her stinging and blurry gaze.

She counts quickly in her head, the numbers she rattles off keeping time with her vigorous routine.

One through fifty, she shifts positions and starts all over again.

She hasn't told anyone about her nightly workouts. The squats, push-ups, planks, and sit-ups she forces on herself when most of the candles have been snuffed and silence has enveloped the dark castle, are her own little secret. And really, there's no logical reason to tell anyone anyway. It doesn't matter what she does on her own time. Even so, she can't help but admit that gaining her strength back feels good; her muscles while protesting the actions also accept them gratefully, adjusting as best as they can to the once familiar practice. Her reflexes are coming back to her, her body feels stronger and if she squints hard enough she can just make out slight muscle definition in her too thin arms and legs.

She's almost ready.

Every morning she visits a tired and older looking David, waiting until after he's met with the war council and has been briefed about the events happening throughout the land before she goes to him. She seeks him out with the intent to inform him that she's prepared…she wants to train and fight and join the war. But instead of doing the duty she knows everyone is waiting for her to step up and take on, every morning she freezes, murmuring something they both know is a lie before making some lame excuse and fleeing the room.

And angry and tired and disgusted, every night she hazes herself hoping that she'll gain the courage to do what so many others are doing in her place.

_Fight._

One through fifty, she shifts positions and starts all over again.

* * *

 

Tristan comes back to Anna.

Emma watches their reunion from her place hiding on the stairs amongst a group of young children with smudged and dirty faces. Ducking behind their squirming bodies, she tunes out their giggles and whispers. Popping a sweet honeyed candy into her mouth and wordlessly handing one to the little girl next to her, she drinks in the sight of her young nurse's tears as she embraces the man from the kitchens with muffled sobs and a soft and tender smile.

The numbers coming back to the manor were much fewer than when they had left, the men and women returning with limps and marred and disfigured bodies had been shocking and disheartening—the gruesome sights only something Emma had experienced from a safe and unsure distance.

Apparently, even with their hits and losses the mission had been deemed a success—word throughout the manor spoke of the battles and hinted of their upper hand against the queen's dark and sinister army. Just earlier that day she had stumbled upon Mary Margaret and Ruby embracing with tears in their eyes and smiles on their lips as David and Hook shook hands and spoke quietly, their stances signaling both trust and respect. Ducking out of the room before she could be seen, she had ran back to the kitchens— the Captain Jones and werewolf comment Anna had made so many weeks ago finally clicking into place.

"Taking to spying now Swan?"

Her entire body goes stiff at the sound of his voice, and shooting her gaze up she feels her eyes widen and her pulse race as she watches the man who had briefly hi-jacked her thoughts begin to descend the stairs slowly. Behind her she can hear the muffled gasps of the older children, beside her she can feel the little girl who she'd shared her candy with shuffle slightly closer.

"Is that jealousy I detect in your eyes darling?"

Stiffening at his lilting and quite obviously teasing words, she raises a brow, trying to calm the screaming voices in her head and the pounding of her heart as he moves closer, lessening the space between them by another step or two.

"Who has captured your attention sweetheart? Is it the pretty little nurse or the strapping young soldier…surely it can't be both."

His eyes hold light amusement, but she can see a glimmer of curiosity behind his humored stare, and narrowing her gaze, she hands over the rest of her candy to the small child next to her and rises quickly, shooting him a withering glare as she makes a move to brush past him.

"Emma…" he reaches out with his good hand, lightly placing his fingers on her arm as she attempts to pass him by—his voice is soft and smooth and holds the slightest hint of desperation.

"Don't touch me." She whispers the words, her tone acidic and sharp as she pulls away from him quickly—unchecked fury courses through her fast as her eyes find his in the dim light of the narrowed staircase. It's the first time they've spoken since the night he had tried to pull her from her dazed and depressed state— she'd been careful about avoiding him, wary of another encounter in the too crowded manor. Part of her wishes she could forgive him for forcing her to awareness, for triggering something inside of her, for making her realize she was failing Henry again...

But she can't.

She's desperate for something, _anything_ to hang onto...even if it's her misplaced anger.

"I told you to stay away from me." She hisses through clenched teeth that nearly grind with the effort. "I meant it."

And pushing past him, briefly aware that _he's letting_ _her go_ , she ignores the feeling of self-loathing that slowly simmers up through her veins and instead grasps onto the sliver of contempt that resides deep inside of her as she quickly makes her way back to her room.

It takes every ounce of strength she posses not to break out into a full out sprint.

And God, she still hates him.

* * *

 

She feels comfortably familiar with most of the sprawling manor's crowded grounds. The hustle and bustle throughout the seemingly endless property has provided her with some form of consistent routine and much needed calmness. Walking around aimlessly is a habit she's come to secretly enjoy.

The large estate's lands resembles a small village with animals running free, new huts and tents popping up nearly everyday and people lingering at almost every corner—merchants, healers, soldiers, men, women, and children.

It's a guarded sanctuary…and even though it's been deemed safe—protected by the cloaking spells provided to them by the fairies—Emma can feel the thick sense of apprehension that clouds the air as anxiety rises with news of the kicked up war.

Regina is making her move.

Shuffling through the dirt, Emma moves towards the far end of the property, the large castle fading away as she makes her way to the camps set up behind it. She's curious about the side of the war she's only ever heard about and seen from afar but has yet to experience first-hand. And moving further into the encampment, passing by the loitering people and the groups of children that have gathered outside the different huts, Emma's eyes focus and zero in on the large tent that is clearly marked as the healers area.

The injured, sick, and dying.

Those most affected by the war.

Unwilling to give herself a chance to over think it, she quickly walks towards it, keeping her head lowered, and her eyes on the dirt at her feet as she tries to avoid being recognized.

She's not prepared for the sight that greets her when she makes her way inside.

There are injured bodies everywhere—some laying on too small cots, some sitting on the muddy ground; others stand in groups with bandages and bruises covering different body parts as they wait to be seen. Faint moans filter to her ears, drowned out only by the sounds of quiet crying and screams of pain.

It's both awful and eye-opening.

Her gaze takes everything in—the blood, the missing limbs, the bodies covered in sheets—and she's sure if it weren't already shattered, her heart would crack and break. Dimly she notices when something she tentatively identifies as firm resolve grows stronger inside of her and slowly clicks into place as the awful sights forever implant themselves into her somewhat chaotic brain.

_This is wrong._

"You one of my new girls?"

Emma turns around at the sound of the slightly raspy voice, her eyes falling on a short middle aged woman with salt and pepper colored hair that's pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her sharp gray eyes studying her closely, she places small hands on her generous hips, as she continues to stare.

"Excuse me?"

"They said they were sending more help…are you it?"

Realization dawns on her slowly and shaking her head, Emma looks away from the older woman's penetrating stare—the beginnings of embarrassment laced guilt creeping up on her. "Oh. No—no…I don't, I don't know anything about medicine or…I mean I was just…"

"You got two working hands?"

"Excuse me?"

The woman sighs, her eyes shooting behind her as someone barks for assistance and a pained shout roars throughout the tent as the smell of blood and sweat abruptly grows stronger—everything around them seemingly amplifying suddenly.

She feels sick.

"Your hands…they work alright?"

Confused, slightly put off and more than a little upset by virtually everything, Emma glances at her hands, her mouth dipping down into a tight frown as she considers the woman's words.

"I…um yes, yes, they're fine."

"You'll do then…follow me."

She isn't given a chance to answer as a basket of cloths and bottles filled with unknown liquids are thrust into her hands and the woman is walking away, leaving Emma with no choice but to follow in her wake.

* * *

 

Her name is Evvie and she's a skilled healer—she has a way with herbs, a head for mixing potions, and a steady hand for stitching.

Emma is nearly in awe of the way she works; she's efficient with a no-nonsense attitude, but her touch is gentle and when a patient needs it, her words are kind. At first they stick to superficial wounds, patching up broken and battered skin here and there, before moving on to the more gory and serious injuries when help is lacking. It takes nearly every bit of control Emma has inside of her not to bend over and empty the contents of her stomach when a young man is brought to them with his insides nearly spilling out and a deep bloody gash slashed across his upper thigh—the open wound is turning green, the effects of some unknown poison. Even after the fairies are called in and he's placed under a sleeping spell to relieve his pain, his fate looks grim—the color of his skin and the unevenness of his breathing hints that he might not last the night.

Seeing all the injuries, the hurt and death so close to her that she's only an arm's length from touching it, she feels something begin to bend inside of her, threatening to break, as memories of Henry's fatal wound taunt her cruelly.

_No._

Evvie seems to sense the struggle going on within her; but instead of catering to it, she keeps her busy, snapping out orders and running her all over the place as more beds fill up and more patients filter in. It's exactly what she needs. Suddenly, desperate to help, the sounds of Henry's fading breaths whispering in her ears, Emma sticks by her side, handing her the instruments and tools she describes and watching as she competently works.

It's a sight to behold, watching the healers and observing the way they mend and fix. And she's hit again, somewhat harshly, with a wave of guilt for her lack of significant contributions to the war effort.

_It's almost time._

Now though, she does what she can. Aside from merely being an errand girl, every once in awhile, when needed, she whispers a few soothing words, or lends a hand for squeezing. But mostly, because she knows she has nothing else to offer, she just stays in Evvie's shadow—listening to orders while giving her her space, still both amazed and horrified by what she sees.

"You been to battle yet?" Evvie's glasses sit low on her nose and she's perched on the edge of a chair, rubbing some sort of salve onto an open wound as the young girl in front of her gasps in pain.

"I…no..no I haven't."

A dark brow rises high on her forehead, but Evvie say nothing else, her focus back on the whimpering patient in front of her—the girls eyes are bright with fever, her cheeks flushed with hurt. It doesn't take long before she slips away into a fitful sleep, aided by a few crushed up berries and a thickly laced potion...she whimpers even in slumber.

_Wrong._

_So very wrong._

"What happened to them…where are they coming from?" Emma whispers the question, her features twisting into a wince as the girl moans and turns her head slightly. The side of her face is dirty, bloody, and purple—fresh bruises and bleeding cuts are scattered across her skin.

"A small group of dark soldiers wandered west of here, too close to us if you ask me, how they got this far without setting any alarms off is beyond my knowledge. They attacked a small camp stationed about twenty miles outside of our walls…they were defenseless…unprepared. These are the survivors."

"Survivors?"

"There weren't many."

* * *

 

She leaves the tent as the sun is dipping behind the trees and the night chill is settling over the land. Her hands are stained red, her hair, damp and heavy, is coming out of its braid, and her skirt is dirty and torn.

She's exhausted.

And still, she feels as if she hasn't done enough.

As she's making a quick exit, Evvie walking closely by her side, following her up to the castle to gather some food and look for more dressings, she pauses when out of the corner of her eyes she sees Hook as he suddenly steps out of a large hut—a redhead with a busty chest, a catlike smile, and a long sword tucked to her side following closely behind him. His shirt is untucked from his pants, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his cheeks are somewhat flushed and it's painfully obvious that the woman next to him looks thoroughly pleased.

It shouldn't surprise her so much.

With death and destruction all around them, it shouldn't shock the hell out of her that he's still thinking only with his dick—the suggestive comments he had thrown at her during her first trip to the Enchanted Forest, in Storybrooke, and then eventually in Neverland suddenly drag their way to the forefront of her brain.

And goddamn it, she hates him, despises him, loathes him...

So it shouldn't fucking bother her to see him after being so clearly satisfied.

_But it does._

Their eyes locking over the crowds of people between him, he appears to barely pay any attention to the redhead as she saddles up to him and purrs something into his ear. Instead he narrows his eyes and allows his gaze to sweep over her as he takes in the sight of Emma's frazzled and mussed up state—his body lurching forward as if he means to take a step in her direction, before abruptly pausing and reconsidering. He's isn't being subtle. The woman next to him has taken notice of his diverted focus and her gaze follows his slowly, her painted lips quirking up into a tiny smirk as she takes in the sight of her tired and worn figure—shifting closer to Hook, she levels Emma with a somewhat mocking stare.

_Mine._

Her body language all but shouts it.

And bristling to attention at the defiant action, Emma turns suddenly, noticing with slight irritation the questions that glimmer in Evvie's eyes as she takes in the tense and obvious moment between herself and the infamous Captain.

_She still hates him._

* * *

 

The sun is bright, the air is crisp, the sky shines a brilliant and vibrant blue. The almost bare trees sway in the gentle wind and tiny animals scurry around the grounds preparing for the impending winter's harsh wrath.

The backdrop is nearly breathtaking and as Emma stands at the window of the great hall for a moment, taking in the stunning beauty of the world before her, she allows herself a moment of brief serenity. It seems so wrong that everything should look so peaceful and calm and _normal_ when miles away people are dying while Regina sits on her fat throne plotting her revenge and seeking vengeance.

At the sound of footsteps growing louder behind her, Emma turns and watches as Mary Margaret and David make their way towards her, their expressions gentling from grim to soft when they see her waiting.

_It's time._

Stepping forward Emma tries to pretend that Hook isn't lingering behind them; irritated that he's there, annoyed by how much her parents obviously trust him, and curious about his willingness to serve them.

It doesn't matter.

_He's_ not the reason she's here.

"I'm ready." She says softly as they draw even nearer, her eyes drifting to the floor for a moment before flitting back up to study their faces.

Mary Margaret's eyes are wide and flickering behind her shock—realization, relief, and terror, shines back at her. David seems a bit more slow on the draw; he stares at her curiously, confusion marring his features, as he steps towards her once, a tiny reassuring smile gracing his lips. And Hook…Hook she ignores all together, refusing to meet the heat and scrutiny of his unyielding blue gaze.

Clearing her throat and clasping her hands behind her back, she raises her chin, and levels her stare, needing to say it out loud before anyone tries to interrupt her. "I'm ready…to do what…what Henry would have wanted. I'm ready to train…to fight." Letting her words sink in slowly, she ignores the fear in their eyes and instead focuses on the acceptance that follows. "I'm ready to go to war."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the warning for almost every chapter now: minor character death, adult themes throughout, violence, language, implied sexual assault and the overall hardships of war.

 

* * *

 

She still dreams of Henry.

Sometimes it's soothing and peaceful and welcome, because he's healthy and breathing and _alive._

And after those soft and almost cruel dreams where everything is as it should be, she lays, wide awake, silently staring at the ceiling with an ache in her chest and hot tears running down her cheeks as she thinks about the son she never got the chance to give a home.

Other times he comes to her in nightmares.

He's cold and lifeless and covered in a blood so red, she's sure she'll see the vibrant color even days later when the dream is nothing more than a lingering pang. On those nights she wakes up screaming—her eyes burning and her body shaking.

Because her son is dead. Because her failure is still fresh and raw and painful. Because in those dreams it isn't Pan standing over Henry's fallen and pale body holding the bloodied and dripping dagger…

_It's her._

* * *

 

She develops a routine.

She rises with the sun, punishes her body with an unforgiving workout, moves onto group training; spends the day learning how to survive in both combat and in the wilderness, spends more time improving her skills on her own, before finally making her way back to the manor…fresh bruises and open cuts littering her skin as she hobbles across the sprawling property.

It's a vigorous schedule and her body protests at first, months of wasting away still taking its toll on her. But even so, as she logs in her endlessly long hours, ignoring Mary Margaret's concerned looks and David's attempts at intervention, she pushes herself again and again. Eventually her muscles begin to welcome the abuse—her body quickly adjusting to her new brutal environment.

She can't let up.

She needs to keep busy.

The more occupied her mind the better.

And just as she has developed a system with swords and knives, arrows and spears, she and Evvie have also developed an unspoken routine with the sick and injured.

Surrounded by death and injury, Emma tries to make herself useful. She always shows up after dinner, bringing food from the manor to the healers and the wounded alike. Following the older woman around, she carries her basket of supplies, working silently by her side, patching up the injured and offering what little help she can, all while trying to stomach the bloodshed of war and the havoc that has been wrecked upon the foreign and unstable land at the hand of the queen.

_Regina._

And even though the stench of blood and death lingers on her hours after she's left the tents, she can't help but go back every single night, picking up her basket of supplies and silently following Evvie's ever bustling figure around.

It's the least she can do.

And she knows, as she holds the hand of a small, badly injured girl, while biting back the bile that burns in her throat, that it's what Henry would have wanted.

It's what he would have done.

* * *

 

The air is brisk but the sun beats down, bright and unforgiving, on her back.

Planting her feet onto the ground, Emma braces herself for impact, raising her sword and gritting her teeth as the blow comes down on her hard, nearly knocking her off her feet as she stumbles and attempts to push her attacker back. Narrowing her eyes, she huffs out a breath, the puff of white that leaves her lips swirling up in front of her face as she regains her footing and lifts her weapon once again, this time more prepared and determined to block the blow that lands harshly on her blade.

As the clash of metal against metal rings out, echoing in the early morning air, she smirks softly, adrenaline racing through her veins as she blocks another hit and then another, and another still, patiently waiting for her opponent's moment of weakness. Watching his footwork, eyes flickering from his weapon, to his face and then back again, she sees when he falters and hesitates briefly.

Her opening.

She takes it.

Springing forward, sword raised, eyes flashing, she puts every skill she's learned over the past few weeks to use, coupling it with her own natural gut instinct.

Soon she has him stumbling and tripping across the open field, curses flying from his mouth as his weapon wavers unsteadily in his hand and his eyes go wide with the beginnings of mounting fear.

She doesn't let up.

Their swords meeting, their breathing heavy, she backs him up until finally, finally, his arms give out and his blade falls to the ground. And kicking out a booted foot, landing her heel square in his chest and watching as he falls, the tip of her sword immediately finds its way to the skin of his neck, the knowledge that she's a mere thrust away from doing real damage somewhat darkly exhilarating. Brown eyes, bright and big, looking up at her, his hands grappling on the ground next to him, he tries to back away from the deadly point of her blade, a soft and irritated curse escaping his lips in a tone laced with slight shame and a heavy dose of disbelief.

Who would have thought the bat-shit crazy savior capable of unarming such a tough and ruthless brute?

"Well done."

Breaking her gaze from the man laying on the dirt floor, Emma glances behind her shoulder, watching as Mulan walks toward her, dressed head to toe in complete battle gear, her sword drawn and her eyes cast down on Emma's opponent.

"You're a fast learner." Her teacher murmurs, appreciation woven into her tone, her dark gaze glimmering with the beginnings of soft respect.

Her parents had handpicked the woman to teach Emma the ways of the sword, Emma's prior experience with the warrior and Mulan's abilities with the weapon both factoring into their choice. After weeks of physical and mental hazing—Mulan's technique's both brutal and effective—the two of them have finally developed a tentative and somewhat begrudging acquaintance, something she acknowledges rarely but appreciates no less.

Stepping away from the man, removing her sword from his neck, Emma surveys the group of recruits she has trained off and on with, each of them eying her warily as she wipes her brow and turns to her teacher, the warrior's gaze both wide and expectant as she waits for Emma to make a move.

Her training for the day should have ended over an hour ago.

"Again." She murmurs softly, noting the smirk on Mulan's lips and ignoring the ripple of groans that filter through the crowd.

* * *

 

"I would fucking kill for a decent cup of coffee from Granny's."

Emma nods, barely looking up as Ruby sits down on the bench next to her; the estate is quiet and dark and the hour is late. Staring absently at the knife she's been shifting from hand to hand, going over the different ways to skin a rabbit and gut a fish in her head, she looks over as Ruby shuffles a little at her side, the confident brunette flashing her a quick grin as she catches her eye.

"Cereal." Emma whispers softly, suddenly, a hint of smile tugging at her lips as she meets her stare.

Pausing for a moment before pulling a flask from underneath her red cloak, Ruby raises a brow questioningly, taking a quick swig before offering the liquor to Emma in a wordless gesture.

"I miss Lucky Charms." Emma laughs, the sound a bit foreign and rough; and taking the offered flask and bringing it to her lips, she allows a small, almost wistful sigh before drinking deeply, enjoying the comfortable and companionable silence.

* * *

 

She bathes as often as she can; right before the evening meal she usually allows herself a few quiet minutes to soak before she jumps into her nightly schedule.

Sinking into the tub, taking note of the old and new scars that decorate her body—barely raised white lines and rough and jagged light pink—Emma washes her skin thoroughly, scrubbing the dirt and grime from her arms and legs, appreciating the dull ache in her limbs, and ignoring the bustle of activity that lays just beyond the ballroom turned community washroom doors; her eyes cast down and away from the other women that are bathing in the tubs next to her, chatting incessantly and doing their best to ignore her as well.

In an encampment filled to the brim with soldiers and civilians, privacy is nearly as rare as warm and clear bath water.

Allowing the scent of lavender to fill her nose, nodding her thanks to a woman as she passes by with a pile of linens, placing a towel next to her tub, she glances up as a set of doors open, her attention directed towards the noise for a moment before she goes to look away, not caring who has entered the room.

A flash of red hair catches her eyes and has her pausing before she can completely go back to her bath.

She's seen that hair before.

Slightly wild, and thoroughly mussed, she remembers it all too clearly; her gaze moving back up and taking in the sight of the curvy figure, her mind drifting back to the day she saw the woman with Hook.

_Hook._

Bristling at the realization, unwilling to pinpoint exactly why the thought of him—and what ( _or whom_ ) he'd been doing that day—causes a storm of turbulent and chaotic emotions to rush through her—anger, respect, hate, longing, and confusion—she rinses the rest of her body quickly, ducking her head under the water once before resurfacing fast, standing hurriedly and reaching for the towel that lays at her side, startled when another hand grabs for it first, her eyes flying up to meet the curious and somewhat calculating hazel stare of the redheaded woman she'd been studying only moments before.

"Princess." the word, one she sometimes hears whispered behind her back, is murmured in a husky and velvety voice; and Emma can only stare as her full lips quirk up into an almost feral smile, her eyes drifting down Emma's wet body and then back up again in a way that, despite her already obvious nudity, makes her feel stripped and exposed…

_Vulnerable._

She fucking hates feeling vulnerable.

"Can I help you?"

The woman doesn't say anything for a moment, a gleam of challenge, a light of fire, a glimmer of envy shining in her unblinking stare as she continues to unabashedly stand before Emma's naked figure, her towel just out of reach. "You look well. _Stable_."

Her tone drips with suggestion, her eyes crinkling a little at the corners, the twitch of her mouth betraying the truth of her words and hinting at Emma's former instability—her manic breakdown something she's fully aware is still talked about in hushed tones around the manor and quite possibly throughout the rest of the unsettled land.

"Do I know you?" Emma's tone is not kind or engaging, but rather clipped and somewhat bored, the question falling slightly flat as she sighs softly, resisting the urge to fold her arms in front of her chest, refusing to show any sign of weakness—a competitive streak she's sure is misplaced suddenly sparking to life inside of her.

The woman, for her part, seems unprovoked by her clear indifference towards her, instead appearing slightly amused by it _—_ lips quirking higher, eyes flashing with something unreadable and just shy of dangerous. "Name's Serena _your highness_." And it's funny the way she emphasizes the title, her lips curling slightly as the word lingers for just a moment too long. "Though we haven't been properly introduced, I believe we have a mutual friend."

Ignoring the surge of energy that suddenly shoots through her, warming her from the inside out at the direct reference to Hook, Emma matches her smile with a tight one of her own, unwilling to back down from the unspoken challenge and still refusing to cover herself as Serena continues to openly stare, sizing her up, eyebrows raised and towel still firmly in her grasp.

"I think you're mistaken."

"Oh? Captain Jones.. _.Killian._ "

It's funny, really, to hear the title and name roll so easily off the other woman's tongue…something akin to awe laced with the faintest hint of jealousy spiking a little inside of her as she considers the statement.

"Sorry…Hook's no friend of mine."

"Ahhhh but you're being too modest your majesty."

"Am I?"

Shuffling just a fraction closer, the redhead, _Serena_ , tilts her head to the side, the action causing Emma's gaze to drop a little, past her feline grin, to her busty chest, and down even further to the skinny sword sheathed at her side.

"It's no secret."

Her voice snapping her gaze back up, Emma meets her stare again, arching a brow at her words _—_ a part of her slightly incredulous to the fact that she's still standing in the tub completely uncovered. "What is?

"Killian's loyalty to the cause, to the royal family…to your parents…" she pauses for a moment, eyes flickering up to meet Emma's, defiance and just the faintest hint of anger flashing bright and untamed. "To _you._ "

It affects her.

It shouldn't.

But goddamn…

It does.

The way her husky voice makes the statement in a slightly accusing tone, her words loaded with meaning that Emma's not ready, _not willing_ , to explore…it affects her—her walls shooting up fast, voices in her head whispering in panicked and hushed tones questioning the words and attempting to pick them apart.

_Hook loyal to her?_

"Even now, he's out there, on the front-lines, risking life and limb _,_ fighting off the evil queen's army at your father's behest."

She pretends not to care.

She _doesn't_ care.

She's aware of the risks he takes.

Everyone is.

He comes and goes, leaving at David's request, running missions and battling Regina's forces, throwing himself in the line of danger at seemingly every chance he gets _—_ whispers of his recklessness, his ruthlessness, his utter loyalty to the throne drift through the encampment, finding their way to the tents, the training fields, the manor… _her_.

And she pretends, as she goes about her daily business, that she's unaffected.

She pretends, as she's training—swords clashing and arrows flying—that her thoughts don't occasionally drift to him.

She's good at pretending.

"War's a risk for most. Hook is not the only one taking chances." she whispers softly. And ignoring the dark glimmer of emotion that shines in the other woman's stare…emotion she knows is not directed towards her but rather the man in question…she pushes down the sliver of worry threatening to worm its way past her barriers, afraid to let it develop into anything else.

After all war is ugly, and hard and depressing.

It's a fact she can't change.

Something she refuses to linger over.

Suddenly annoyed with the situation, harshly reminding herself she doesn't have an ounce of time or patience to spare; straightening her spine, and narrowing her gaze, she reaches out a steady hand, her lips thinning into a slight frown as she stares at Serena hard, silently daring her to say another word.

She doesn't.

And too tired to continue on with whatever competitive and catty female bullshit games the redhead had intended to play in the first place, curious about the sliver of jealous confusion that's still humming inside of her, she reaches out and grabs the towel from her, wrapping it around her naked and dripping form before stepping out of the tub, eyes focused in front of her as she walks away, heart thumping hard and mind racing fast.

_Even now, he's out there, on the front-lines, risking life and limb, fighting off the evil queen's army at your father's behest._

It doesn't matter.

The pirate means nothing to her.

* * *

 

Hook dies in her dream that night.

There's screaming—it's pained and terrible—and it mixes with the flurry of chaos and madness all around as he drops to his knees, slayed at the hand of a faceless soldier, blood pouring from his mouth; eyes once so clear and blue going completely black as he falls to the ground.

It isn't until she's fully awake, body drenched in sweat and throat raw and burning that she realizes that the screaming had actually been her.

* * *

 

War is a cruel and ruthless force.

It shows no mercy towards the young or old, men or women.

It's capricious, volatile, and undiscriminating.

Eyes, squinting in the low and soft light provided by a few nearby candles, Emma ignores the flurry of healers around her, instead glancing down at the middle-aged woman in front of her, the rancid smell of infection drifting to her nose as she tries not to let her eyes wander downwards to the twisted and distorted limbs of the suffering patient—broken and mauled by an angry Ogre released on a village that was rumored to be sympathetic and favorable towards Snow and Charming's war efforts.

Wincing, somewhat startled as she finds her hand in a cold but firm grip, she shoots her gaze up, meeting a hazy, broken, and nearly lifeless stare; the hurt reflected back at her making her stomach lurch as a slow-burning anger kindles to life inside of her—reassuring words caught in her throat as she witnesses pure and unforgiving agony.

"Let me die dear. _Please_. Don't let them save me. I don't want to be alive in a world like this."

The woman's voice is broken, a croaked and raspy plea, and wanting to look away but refusing the urge, Emma places her other hand over their clasped ones, squeezing gently and nodding slowly, hating herself with an intense and disgusted passion for not being able to provide any source of comfort to the pained woman, not strong enough to demand that the nurses and healers heed her request.

Death would be a much kinder fate.

And as a Dr. Whale makes his way over to them, looking aged, and tired, and worse for the wear, the woman's screams ringing out as they finally begin to work on her—needles and potions, bandages and sharpened tools—Emma feels a suffocating tightness in her chest as her anger spikes and continues to burn.

* * *

 

She dreams of power.

Devastating power.

It thrums through her veins, warming her body and nearly bursting from her fingertips.

She feels formidable, beautiful, and terrifying.

_Free._

* * *

 

"What's going on?"

There's a commotion in the great hall; people are gathered in hordes near the food tables—the atmosphere somewhat exuberant and slightly celebratory.

Exhausted from her long and tiring day, Emma steps further into the room. Pushing away a stubborn lock of hair that refuses to stay in its braid, she gratefully sips on a tin of water Neal hands to her as he saddles up to her side, standing a little to close for her liking. Glancing around somewhat curiously, raising a brow as people push past her, she takes another long swig before looking over at him expectantly; waiting for an answer she hears energetic shouts and spirited laughter continue to ring out.

"We've had a victory. Another unit just came back with the entire party intact and a couple of the big guys who work under Regina in tow as prisoners. They should have some vital information if our guys can get them to talk…pretty good news."

It _is_ good news.

And she's about to question Neal just whose unit was so successful, but then the crowd shifts and moves and suddenly she has the perfect view of him…

_Hook._

She tries not to keep track of people as they leave the manor, unwilling to see off the men and woman as they go out on their different assignments—heading off Regina's army, scouting the land, or providing some form of defense to the vulnerable towns and villages throughout the kingdom.

It's too hard.

Too terrifying.

Too real.

And thinking back on it, she realizes with a hitch in her throat and slight frown pulling at her lips, that she can't remember the last time she's seen him at the manor—her encounter with the redhead, _Serena_ , suddenly, and somewhat annoyingly, edging to the forefront of her mind…

_It's no secret._

_Killian's loyalty to the cause, to the royal family…to your parents…_

_To you._

Jumping a little as the woman's voice echos in her head, she tries to drown out the words with fierce and hissing internal curses, attempting to ignore the sudden drop in her gut and the nearly overwhelming wave of relief that crashes over her again and again at the mere sight of a man she tries, in vain, to never think about. She wants to look away, take a moment to collect and steel herself; but with his abrupt appearance, the distraction of the growing crowd, and her genuine happiness at the kingdom's good luck, she can't help herself from weakening a little, taking a few seconds to openly stare…

He's lost a little weight, his beard is a shade thicker, his hair a little longer.

And his eyes, even from across the room, if possible, seem bluer…

More intense.

And seeing them, vivid and bright, suddenly snap up to meet hers—almost as if he had sensed her attention—a hint of smirk pulling at his lips; he holds her stare, his rough and dark features softening fractionally before she looks away fast. Mumbling something to Neal about spending her dinner in the tents with Anna, she pushes past him and flees.

She doesn't look back.

* * *

 

"Swan."

She merely nods at him, refusing to let her attention waver (too much) from her opponent as he passes her by on the open field; sword in hand, hook gleaming at his side, he let his eyes linger for a moment too long before heading past her to train a group of new recruits further down the field.

And when she finds herself on her back, her adversary looking down at her with a smug smile on her face, she curses his name under her breath.

* * *

 

Their good luck doesn't last long.

Regina retaliates against their small victory and the capture of her men.

Unleashing several relentless attacks against their armies and allies…

It's brutal and bloody and the death toll is high.

* * *

 

"They say we're not safe here anymore."

Anna's softly spoken words have Emma's head shooting up, her eyes clearing a little as she focuses on the girl sitting next to her. The young woman's skills have been needed more frequently in the healing tents, her time spent at the manor dwindling to sleep and meals _only_ as she works endlessly to help with the wounded—the injuries filtering in are numerous, gruesome, and more than a little alarming. And while anyone can see that she's working herself to the bone, her fingers calloused, her already slender figure getting smaller by the day, she can't stay away, _doesn't want to stay away—_ it's something Emma understands well, a feeling she's only too familiar with. So she leaves her be, knowing she's not the only one battling demons, throwing herself into the war effort to forget about her own constant despair. But if, by chance, she happens to stumble upon the boy who works in the kitchen's… _Tristan._..on occasion and mentions a little too eagerly which tent Anna's working in, or she miraculously happens to have an extra dinner roll or a sweet red apple on her whenever she visits the over-worked nurse, well, that's just a slight coincidence and nothing more.

She and Anna aren't the only ones affected by Regina's newest counterattacks and the overcrowding in the healing tents that results…

She's watched, more than once, unease prickling up her spine and a pang in her chest, as Mary Margaret has left the tents, tears streaking down her cheeks—an obvious weight causing her shoulders to slump forward a little, signalling a moment's defeat. She's witnessed David tirelessly and diligently organize parties, sending them out in search of vital plants and magic to help with the tiring and never-ending healing efforts—the lines on his face becoming even more visible, the light in his eyes dim. Gold, Ruby, Neal, Archie, and countless others, they've all been spotted, when not outside the manor walls, doing their part, each and every one of them solemn and grim faced as they see, first hand, the twisted and horrific consequences of a vengeful queen with nothing but grief and madness driving her forward.

Even those used to violence, hardships, and brutality don't remain unaffected.

Just the other day, exhausted and mentally beaten down, whispering a soft goodnight to Evvie as the older woman tried, in vain, to bring down an elderly man's fever, an infection coursing through him from a wound in his shoulder; her eyes drifting and somewhat heavy, had caught sight of Hook, facing away from her, voice low and soft, as he told stories to a group of children, some gathered on the ground in front of him with bandages and patches covering their bodies, some too weak to even attempt to sit up, opting to lay in bed, all listening, in rapt and captivated silence, as he recalled his adventures on the high seas—his hands, both good and hooked, waving around, gesturing wildly as he spoke of ogres, sea-beasts, and mermaids alike.

The way her heart had clenched a little, her belly flipping at the sight, and a stinging prick of something she refused to acknowledge as tears, had caused her to look away quickly, turning from the scene and hurrying out of the tent fast; her mind racing and her pulse ceasing to slow down in pace later that night as she had laid in bed, thinking about the children's awed and momentarily happy faces—the image forever implanted in her brain.

"It's unnerving, wondering if this place is going to hold…"

Anna's shaky voice ripping her from her thoughts, Emma shifts uncomfortably in her chair, drawing her lower lip into her mouth and closing her eyes for a moment as her words sink in, something about Anna's doubts, her shaky faith, not sitting right with her; she needs the girl's quiet optimism, a part of her _craving_ it. Snapping herself back to focus, she wrings out a bloodied cloth in the small bowl she holds in her lap, handing it back over to the brunette and dimly watching as the younger girl bends over to wipe the bruised and dirty forehead of the young man who lies motionlessly on the cot beneath her.

"The magic, the cloaking spells and protective charms, they say they're wavering."

"I know." Emma murmurs it softly, unsure what else to say, all too aware of the whispered rumors that have been floating around the encampment since Regina's last attacks.

Her wrath knows no bounds, her magic is getting stronger, her army only continuing to grow by the day…

Sitting back and stretching a little, Anna nods at her short statement—she understands that Emma speaks little and is rarely chatty, never faulting her for her direct and sometimes blunt one word answers. Brown hair falling out of her loose bun, soft features drawn and tired, she holds her stare a moment longer before gesturing downwards—eyes glimmering with hints of despair and red from lack of real sleep. Smiling sadly, distractedly, she wipes the soldiers forehead once again. "He was lucky."

Brows arching high, Emma looks down at the beaten man, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth as she takes in the sight of his almost mangled form; luck's the last thing he appears to have. " _Lucky_?"

"He lives." Her words are soft, barely whispered.

And eyes shooting up to meet misty and dimmed brown, Emma holds Anna's stare again, the stifling smell of medicine and blood turning her stomach and burning her nose, as people—men, women, and children—suffer and die around them. "He saved his younger brother…and helped to fight off the soldiers until our reinforcements arrived. Despite the dark army's brutality, he managed, to somehow survive and keep others safe in the process… _he lives_."

Suddenly, she can't breathe.

Soft murmured words ringing in her ears, suddenly, she feels light-headed.

It all seems so surreal, wrong, unnatural.

She can't wrap her head around it. She's been living it for months now and she can't wrap her goddamned head around it…

And she knows, as she stiffens in her chair, clasps her hands together, and digs her nails into the skin of her palm, that perhaps it's time to quit hiding behind her training and work in the tents, perhaps it's time to stop cleaning up the aftermath of Regina's grief-filled vengeance, perhaps it's time to experience what's going on outside the manor's walls herself.

Perhaps it's time to push herself a little further.

The sound of a small sigh breaking her from her brief reverie, Emma glances up as Anna gestures for her to hand over a basket full of vials and small containers and in a few minutes the two of them are working silently once again—creams and potions, cloths and water, needles and stitches, cries and curses.

She wishes one of them would say something, the silence too depressing…

Too telling.

"They're saying it's only a matter of time before the manor falls." Anna whispers out suddenly in a rushed and frantic breath, as if she'd been trying to keep the words in, her statement breaking the lingering quiet, her young and kind features twisted into an expression of worry and alarm, her fingers bloodied and trembling slightly as she unscrews the cap of a small blue vial she holds; the despair and fear in her voice clear and painful as she looks down at their injured patient. "Emma… _gods_ …they say we're not safe here anymore." She repeats her earlier statement quietly, lips quivering ever so slightly—the anxiety stamped across her tired and drawn face doing little to hide her obvious inner turmoil.

And turning away from her as she begins to apply the potion to the young soldier's wounds, a grunting whimper escaping his lips as Anna's gentle hands move over him, Emma's eyes scan the tent, the sounds of quiet crying and dull moans drifting to her ears, drowning out the dull roaring and the panicked voices that linger there.

"I know."

* * *

 

There are other rumors that swirl around the grounds.

Knowing whispers.

Murmurs filtering through the crowd gathered behind her, she barely pays them any attention as she lifts her bow, draws the arrow, and takes in a deep breath.

Up until a few weeks ago she had never given the weapon she now holds in her hands a second thought.

She certainly has no prior training with it…their journey to Neverland and her crash course lessons with the different weapons they had found aboard the Jolly Roger consisted of a few simple instructions from her mother, father, and Hook, followed by a learn as you go mentality as they had fought off the Lost Boys—the sword usually her weapon of choice.

But still…

They say her skill with the bow is nearly unmatched.

Many state she likely inherited such talent from her mother.

Some wonder if Robin Hood is just that great of a teacher…his legend is well known throughout the land.

While others whisper of the magic that they believe still runs through her veins; the path she was supposed to have taken, her once hopeful destiny, still talked about in hushed and reverent tones…

She is the product of True Love.

_The Savior._

Power like that just doesn't disappear.

As Emma pulls back, breathes out once and closes her eyes for a moment before focusing them once again; she allows the world to fade away as she lets go, watching through tunneled vision as the sharpened point of the arrow she shot hits the bulls-eye, point blank, for the third time that day.

The crowd around her claps respectfully; and Robin comes up behind her patting her on the back and whispering words of hearty encouragement, before moving on to his other students.

And Emma, eyes still focused across the field on the dummy she had shot straight through its non-existent heart, shakes away the vaguely familiar feeling of burning and sparking energy—its heat warming her blood, lingering on the tips of her fingers, and pulsing, hot and steady, deep in her gut.

* * *

 

Jefferson and Leroy are the first people she knows, truly knows, who die in battle.

Daily she surrounds herself with the aftermath of the war.

But it isn't until David returns, bruised and battered, with their bodies in tow, that it hits her. The air whooshing out of her body, she watches from her perch on a nearby hillside as Mary Margaret meets him at the gates, sobbing openly into his arms as they mourn the loss of their friends.

* * *

 

"I hate war."

Sitting by a small pond on the ground, Emma looks up, surprise and remorse hitting her hard as she watches Grace, Jefferson's daughter, make her way over to her; the young girl's eyes haunted and tired, her features pale and pinched. She had heard that after hearing about her father's death she had locked herself away in a room for days, refusing food and drink and any kind of help—a grief Emma knows all too well.

Scooting over as the girl sits down next to her, she swallows over the sudden narrowness of her throat, her eyes flitting back to the water, and barely acknowledging the light snow that has started to fall, coating the ground and chilling the air.

"I really hate war."

And reaching out, still staring at the pond, her eyes burning and her heart threatening to break, as never healed wounds from Henry's death begin to resurface, she places her hand over the girl's and nods slowly before speaking in a voice thick and heavy with emotion.

"Me too."

* * *

 

Regina has a list of most wanted.

Posters…they're everywhere—nailed to taverns and trees…passed around farming and fishing villages alike.

Eventually they make their way back to the manor, trickling in with the return of both scouting parties and worn and battle-weary soldiers—filtering through the crowds, they shift from hand to hand with worried whispers and anxious glances.

Sitting, just beyond the tented village that sprawls across the estate's grounds, Emma stares at the dirty and ripped poster she holds tightly in her grip, her eyes carefully roaming over the faded and sketched faces staring back up at her.

It's an interesting pyramid of people that Regina has deemed the most deadly outlaws and criminals of the land…

Hook, Ruby, Gold, Mary Margaret, David…

Her face is at the very top.

A slight frown tugging at her mouth she studies her sketched features—her eyes narrowed and her lips pulled tight—she appears hostile, intimidating…

_Dangerous._

The reward is high, the crimes listed against them long; some ring false while others hold hints of half-told truths.

_Murder, thievery, treason._

Leaning her head against the rough bark of the tree, Emma closes her eyes, and drops the poster, uncaring where it flutters off to next—whose hands it winds up in. Giving herself a brief moment to rest even as the wind picks up around her, carrying with it a bitter winter chill, she sighs softly, noting the prickling of goosebumps that skitters up her skin as she hugs her body tight, pulling the heavy cloak she wears even closer.

She'll have to remember to bring extra blankets to the healing tents tonight.

And with the random thought, she sighs again, her eyes opening and focusing in on the bustling encampment spread before her—the bark of loose dogs, the high pitched laughter of young children, the dull murmur of mingled conversations.

Sometimes she still feels as if it's all just a dream…

It's gotta be a dream.

The Enchanted Forest, magical and bloody wars, fairytale characters, Snow White and the Evil Queen…

It doesn't feel real…

But even so, she never wakes up.

* * *

 

She feels rage.

She wants to be on the front-lines, taking her anger and fury out on those who've gathered around Regina.

Sometimes the storm inside of her is so hot, so blinding, that she's afraid it'll consume her completely.

_She hates._

She hates Pan for killing Henry.

She hates Gold for not being able to stop him.

She hates Regina for turning his death into something even more ugly.

And she hates herself.

Most of all she hates herself.

* * *

 

It's raining.

An icy, cold, unrelenting rain.

The grounds are a mud-drenched mess, the trees drooping low with the weight of the constant downpours, the wind whipping and slicing and unforgiving.

Tucked into the back corner of the large and expansive kitchen, kneading the dough in front of her carefully, her eyes cast down, and mind far away and wandering, Emma pounds her fists into the dough again and again in a restless sort of fashion, flour coating the surface of the table and dusting up occasionally, making her nose twitch a little, her hands itching to brush away her frizzing hair. Prior to the storm, she'd been keeping her distance from the kitchens, her training and work in the healing tents taking up nearly all of her time. But with the rain pounding down mercilessly, and with so very little to do indoors, it was only a matter of time before she'd been drawn to the somewhat soothing routine of making bread, the warm and pleasant scents of the wood-burning ovens, the quiet murmurs of the low conversations buzzing around her all familiar, comforting, and easy.

Blowing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes, she looks up at the hustle and bustle in front of her, men and women alike scurrying around to do their part and pull their weight while the grounds remain nearly impassable. The bad weather started a little over a day ago, and hadn't let up since—drawing more people than usual under the manor's roof, forcing some to abandon their huts and tents for the safety of the castle's warm walls and roaring fires. Almost everyone is anxious, scouting parties have been delayed for the time being, fighting outside the walls has ceased, fear and restlessness are beginning to take its toll.

"You've been here all morning."

At the sound of Mary Margaret (and she knows she really should start referring to her as _Snow_ , but the name feels bitter in her mouth, the word still so foreign and unnatural) she looks up; her eyes, which had been so focused on the job before her, squint a little as dark spots waver at the edge of her vision before clearing abruptly, dizziness wrapping around her swiftly before fading fast—a reminder that she'd skipped both breakfast and lunch.

"People are hungry." she answers her mother in a somewhat dull tone, a tight smile ghosting her lips as she watches the dark haired woman nod quickly in agreement, gaze sweeping the kitchen before falling back on her—her eyes tainted a little since the death of Leroy— _Grumpy_ —still open and honest with their fear and worry as she looks at her thoughtfully, somewhat longingly.

"It's been a rough few days." Mary Margaret says it absently in response, her voice somewhat distant and low, her fingers twitching a little, almost as if anxious to reach out and touch her, or perhaps, even more likely, eager to grasp the hilt of a weapon she's not currently carrying.

"It's been a rough few _months_." There's no sadness in Emma's tone as she quietly corrects her, no grief, or anger, or despair. She keeps her emotions locked up, only allowing her fury to show, her anxiety to grow, and her tears to fall, in the fierceness of her training, the confines of her own room, or the quiet serenity of a midnight stroll. Now, _now_ she's just merely stating the facts—the storm has been unforgiving, a hindrance in their plans, but it's only the newest addition to their unrelenting and always mounting misery.

"You're right. It has."

Suddenly feeling guilty, suddenly and unfairly hating that her friend and confidant, has been replaced by a warrior, a queen… _her mother_ , she closes her eyes for a moment, only absently looking up at the sound of shouts and commotion outside of the kitchen door; the beginnings of a genuine smile unconsciously lifting her lips when she sees a small boy and an even smaller girl running away. A puppy that really looks like nothing more than a mop of brown fur with over-sized paws jumping at their feet as they dash away giggling and shrieking, hands overflowing with candies and fruits most likely stolen off the tabletops as a large and robust looking woman with fraying gray hair, stern features, and an apron hitched high on her waist hollers after them in a grating voice.

It's one of the most endearing sights she's seen in days.

And she can feel the tears abruptly well and burn in her eyes, taking her by surprise as she continues to watch the simple scene, the sound of the children's laughter filling the otherwise bleak halls, the skitter and scratch of the puppy's claws ringing out wildly, and the somewhat good-natured yet disgruntled warnings of the kitchen-hand dying down to raspy and murmured grumbles.

"Emma…" Snow's voice is soft, her tone uncertain, the sound tearing her away from the retreating children; and Emma knows before she even looks up at her, that her gaze is searching her—questioningly, imploringly, nervously.

The tear falls before she can stop it, and ashamed, surprised, and angry she brushes it away with the tip of her shoulder, cursing at herself inwardly for being such an obvious and stupid sap.

"Honey," she stiffens slightly at the endearment, unprepared for it, _unreceptive_ to it, and seemingly sensing her discomfort, Mary Margaret changes tactics, shuffling closer, taking one step and then another until Emma's terrified and almost certain that she's going to reach out to try to comfort her. "Hey…Emma…I…"

"Please." She interrupts her fast, steeling herself against her brief moment of weakness, _of emotion_ , before Mary Margaret can continue; fingers working the dough more furiously, eyes cast down and away from her mother's. "Please don't tell me you're worried about me. Please don't tell me I'm pushing myself too hard, or that I need a break, or that I should talk to Archie, or Jiminy Crickett, or whatever the hell his name is. Please. I know you're scared, and upset and _God_ you just lost a friend…I know that. I do. Just as I know that I'm unstable, that before… _after_ Henry…" her words waver a little and her voice hitches and almost breaks at the mention of his name, but worried that her mother will pounce on that, all too aware of the looks that are constantly shot in her direction as she's leaving the manor before the sun rises and coming back long after it has set, she barrels on, still avoiding eye contact as she speaks in stuttering, and halting sentences. "Please. I stay busy because if I don't I'll break. I train because I don't know where else to direct my anger. I help in the tents because each and every one of those wounds…I feel like it's a blow I've inflicted personally…it's not them she's trying to hurt…it's us. It's _me_. So please, I know I'm on edge, I know that I'm tense, and distant…but if you came here to check up on me…please don't tell me to stop…I—I can't stop, when I stop, when I have nothing to do, and it's too quiet…then it hurts, then…"

"Emma." Mary Margaret's voice is strained, almost pleading. And Emma can see, as she glances down at the table in front of them, the way her fingers are digging into the flour covered surface, she can hear the sound of her breathing, slightly heavy and somewhat unsteady filtering to her ears. " _Emma…_ "

It's such a broken sound, her name on Mary Margaret's lips.

And unable to help herself, knowing she actually owes her mother so much more than she's given her lately, realizing that while _she_ may be the fallen savior— some lunatic incapable of handling the death of her son—Mary Margaret— _Snow White_ —still holds the weight of a warring and fragile kingdom on her already burdened shoulders.

When their eyes meet, misty blue clashing with hazy green, the small brunette smiles tremulously, understandingly, before reaching out a hand to grab a covered bowl. "I was just going to say that I miss you. And you don't owe me anything. I know that. And I understand. You've been through so much. We all have. But everyday… _everyday_ I have to watch my friends and family leave, not knowing if they're coming back…every time I ride past those manor walls, leaving you behind…it hurts. I miss my friend and my daughter and…and I know that it's hard and it's still painful and things are uncertain and Regina is…" she trails off, swallowing thickly, her smile wavering around the edges and her fingers curling into themselves nervously. "Everything seems so dark right now, so wrong, and despairing…but I know we are going to get through this…good _will_ prevail…but for now…I just miss my friend…Emma…I…" pausing she shakes her head slowly, lips dipping down into the threat of a frown before tilting back up again, the tears in her eyes betraying the smile pulling at her mouth. "Well that's it I guess…I just miss you." she finishes softly, almost shyly, and rolling up her blouse sleeves and averting her gaze, she sets to work by Emma's side without another word, her quiet strength calming, soothing…

_Familiar._

Staring at her profile, her prominent cheekbones and the sharp angle of her jaw and chin, Emma bites down on the inside of her cheek— images of her mother, brushing her hair and braiding it, helping her bathe when she'd been incapable of taking care of herself, her soft warm hands coupled with a gentle and comforting voice, flashing before her eyes. And shuffling slightly closer, the cling and clatter of the kitchen coming back into focus, she begins to knead the dough once again—the beginnings of a lump forming in her throat as she reminds herself she isn't the only one suffering.

"I miss you too."

* * *

 

It's still raining.

But the sound of David's laughter, loud, and somewhat boisterous ringing out, and bouncing off the council room turned training quarters' walls lightens the discontent in the air as Emma shuffles backwards, her breathing heavy with enervation, her arms aching from the grueling but somewhat satisfying workout. Lifting her sword, she watches as David lifts his, his own breathing labored as he stares at her with both admiration and pride glimmering in his pale stare.

"Mulan's taught you well."

She smiles at his compliment, enjoying how easy it is to be in his company, the quick break they took to train much needed and much appreciated, the confining walls of the manor continuing to drive everyone stir-crazy. "Thanks."

"But I went easy on you…you are my daughter after all."

Only bristling slightly at the way he easily says the word— _daughter_ —she narrows her eyes into tiny slits, running her tongue over her teeth as she tries to hide the beginnings of a smirk; and feeling her competitive streak warring to life, continuing to take advantage of this brief break from her mundane and numbing routine, she moves closer, taking a step and raising a brow as he lifts his blade in challenge.

"Best out of three?"

Her own chuckle earns a few questioning looks from those training around them, and she knows as her sword clashes with David's and they draw a group of casual on-lookers, that amidst the curious stares, and past the hushed conversations—the sight of the shepherd turned king and savior turned mad-woman a strange thing to behold indeed—is a set of icy blue eyes; the penetrating gaze burning the back of her head and sending a wave of prickling awareness up her spine.

* * *

 

Finally more good news.

Reports state that Regina is withdrawing her soldiers.

Her armies are falling back.

And while the atmosphere seems a little lighter, she can tell, that many people, including herself are waiting for the fallout.

* * *

 

The fire crackles, the snap and sizzle quiet and soothing; its roaring flames douse her room in a soft orange, somewhat soothing glow. Glancing down at the array of weapons laying on her bed, she allows her eyes to wander over them slowly—studying their silver gleams and their sharpened points; breathing in deeply as the beginnings of adrenaline edge its way into her veins.

It's time.

_Finally._

"So you're really doing it eh?"

His voice makes her blood run cold even as a warm shudder ripples over her body, her stomach flips uncomfortably once and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand upright, before she schools her features into a mask of calm composure, straightening her shoulders as his lilting question hangs in the air.

_Hook._

Swallowing, she turns, eyebrows raising, arms crossing over her chest; she takes in the sight of him leaning against the door, like he hasn't a damned care in the world, and silently curses herself for not hearing his approach in the first place.

He always was a sneaky bastard.

And as she watches him, vaguely she wonders how he found out that she's leaving with the departing unit in the morning—word of Regina's lingering forces eying up some of the more defenseless nearby villages crying out for attention. But almost as quickly as the question forms, she hurriedly chases it away with a frustrated roll of her eyes.

He is, after all, David's right-hand-man

A thought that still makes her cringe in confusion.

"Get out."

Unsurprisingly he ignores her, his smirk too familiar, his gaze too searching, and walking further into her room, his eyes drop to her weapons; something wary passing over his features before he brings his attention back to her. "Are you quite certain you're ready for this darling?" his voice, quiet and smooth as silk, drifts over to her in a slightly musical but no less concerned tone; and hearing it, she bristles slightly—ignoring the spark of _something_ that lights within her at the soft and gentle sound.

_Hook,_ she reminds herself silently, his name eliciting images of a ruthless killer, a man worried about himself only, even as a voice whispers in her head in scolding and chastising tones that his villainous ways are in the past, a point proven to her time and time again in Neverland, in the way he has thrown himself, his loyalty, everything he owns, entirely to the cause.

Focusing on his question, pushing away the churning in her gut and the buzzing in her ears, she feels a small frown tug at her lips, irritation burning hot in her veins as she considers not answering him at all.

Because of course she's not ready.

She knows weeks of training—regardless of her surprising skill with a variety of weapons—have barely prepared her for what she'll see past the walls of the manor. The injuries she's witnessed while working with Evvie, the stories she's heard, and the pain she's seen just barely scratching the surface of what lays beyond.

Still, even though she knows she's a rookie, even though she knows she's out of her element, even though she knows everyone looks at her as if she might break down at any goddamn moment…

It hurts.

Their lack of confidence.

Her expected failure.

And she doesn't now why she lets it get to her, her walls attempting to firmly keeping her emotions at bay—a pang of longing, need for acceptance, shooting through her as she tries to convince herself that she's fine.

"I really don't think that's any of your business."

"Out there…it's much different than the warm confines of the manor love."

"You don't think I know that?" she hisses the question out before she can stop herself, anger roaring hot inside of her as she narrows her eyes.

And turning from him, her back stiff, her head feeling slightly fuzzy, she grits her teeth tightly—annoyed by the way he affects her, has _always_ affected her—and attempts to listen to the voices in her head that whisper for her to relax.

His opinion doesn't matter.

He doesn't matter.

"I've a group leaving tomorrow morning as well…you only have to say the word and you can attach yourself to that unit instead."

She snorts softly at his words, glancing over her shoulder as tiny alarm bells ring in her ears. "I'm surprised you haven't just flat out told me to stay at that manor."

His features tighten slightly, a haunted look shadows his eyes and suddenly he averts his stare. "No. But you could come with me."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because having you close by…I can…"

"What? Look out for me…make sure I don't get myself killed?" she cuts him off, her voice terse, her anger spiking again.

"Yes."

_Don't._

Closing her eyes, she tries to ignore the spike of heat that jolts inside of her, jarring her, sending her reeling as she attempts to sort through the jumbled and mixed thoughts in her brain…

Don't.

Don't listen.

Don't soften.

Don't break.

"Go Hook…if you're leaving tomorrow as well, I'm sure you have better things to do than annoy me." Her words are biting, her tone cutting, and she insists to herself it means nothing that her thoughts immediately drift to the curvy redhead—fury bubbling up inside of her as she fervently tries to deny it.

_Act together Swan._

And as her harsh words hang in the air, she stiffens as he makes no attempt to move. The silence long and drawn out, her spine goes even more rigid as the quiet moment is followed by another and then yet another before, with a soft sigh and the murmurings of something she can't quite decipher, but sound suspiciously close to _as you wish_ , she hears _, feels,_ him turn to leave.

"Be careful out there Swan."

She doesn't answer him, doesn't even look at him; instead, feeling drained and frustrated and somewhat confused she ignores the heaviness in her chest, the shakiness in her limbs, and continues to check her weapons, disregarding the slight trembling of her lips and the pounding of her heart as he leaves her.

* * *

 

Sleep doesn't come easy for her that night.

She tosses and turns, refusing to allow her earlier conversation with the former pirate turned…king's advisor, soldier, knight?…to replay over and over again in her head, her brain objecting and fighting her the entire time…

_But you could come with me._

_And why would I do that?_

_Because having you close by…I can…_

_What? Look out for me…make sure I don't get myself killed?_

_Yes._

When sleep finally claims her, she dreams of crashing ocean waves and eyes as blue as Neverland's sky.

* * *

 

"I should go with you."

Glancing up from the pack she'd been loading onto her horse, Emma looks over at Anna, watching as the girl strokes the animal's mane thoughtfully, a somewhat torn expression on her soft features as she raises slightly watery eyes to her.

"What do you mean?"

"I should go…healers are needed out there. They send them out with almost every unit but I have yet to, I've been too scared to… I-I should go with you. Help. Be a part of the effort."

Fear, dull and somewhat numbing slowly spreads through her as she stares at the kindhearted nurse with the gentle hands and the soft and comforting voice, the girl who has become a constant presence in her life, not once shying away from her; a need to protect her, to shelter her from the brutalities that are sure to lay outside the manor's shielded and magically guarded gates rushing through her fast.

"No."

"Emma…"

"Please stay." Her voice cracks a little as she makes the simple request, shaking her head near frantically as she searches the girl's eyes almost pleadingly before looking away, not wanting to make herself seem too vulnerable, afraid it would scare her young friend away. "Please Anna…you're needed here…I couldn't…if you…there's so much here you can do…it's dangerous out there…you've seen what happens…please just promise me you'll stay…I need you to…"

"Emma."

Her voice, low and somewhat frightened, has her shaking herself a little, her eyes snapping back to Anna's as she realizes with a dim sense of wonder that she had moved to stand directly in front of her, her hands gripping the nurse's tight—knuckles straining and going white with the effort. Releasing her abruptly, she backs away fast, apology on the tip of her tongue as she watches Anna's expression cloud a little, before understanding shines in her eyes and she nods.

"Okay."

"You'll stay? I need you to promise me."

"I'll stay Emma. I promise."

* * *

 

When Mary Margaret hugs her goodbye, Emma tries not to react as the woman holds her for a few seconds too long, her breathing coming out gasping and hitching as she whispers in her ear for her to _be safe_ , the feel of David placing a soft kiss in her hair, causing her to close her eyes briefly as she allows herself to lean, just a little bit, into their warmth and comfort.

And when she finally pulls back from the long overdue embrace, neither of them say a word as she walks away, face streaked with tears and a tremulous smile wavering on her lips.

* * *

 

The newest reports offer another slight victory.

They state that Regina's forces have been pushed back, further south, by Snow and Charmings army.

What remains in the immediate area are smaller but no less violent bands of rebellious and dark soldiers.

They aren't a large unit, their goal was never to fight on the front-lines in the first place but rather to deliver what security and help they can to some of the smaller villages on the outskirts of the Enchanted Forest.

There's twenty of them in total, twelve men and eight woman, ranging from teenager to veteran warrior. Mulan, their quiet yet commanding leader, a younger boy, Patrick, who can't be much older than eighteen and looks at her with kind and somewhat fearful brown eyes, Dylan a one-time friend of Lancelot's and expert with the sword and club, Mae their kind and soft spoken medic, as well as a handful of others whose names she tries not to learn.

She's seen enough death, destruction, and despair…

She's lost enough.

Been dealt one too many blows.

Throughout their training, and even now, as they ride away from the manor, she chooses not to learn their names, not to engage in conversation…

Because you can't be overly affected by the loss of someone you don't know.

The reports _claim_ Regina's armies are falling back.

But Emma can't help but feel that despite the positive word, the war is far from ending…

The overture is coming to a close, the key players are in place, and the real show is about to begin…

* * *

 

"They're cakes."

Glancing up as the brown-eyed boy, Patrick, approaches her, Emma watches him warily, her eyes flickering down to the hand that's extended towards her, holding something wrapped in a dark brown paper.

"My mother made them for our trip before we left, you want one?"

Eyes widening as she takes in the sight of the young soldier, a smile ghosting his lips as she stares at him hard, Emma shakes her head silently, watching when he looks away from her, an embarrassed and red flush creeping up his neck as he walks away.

He's just a child.

* * *

 

"A band of soldiers have been reported just west of here."

Standing next to her horse, breathing in the clear and crisp air, Emma looks up from her canteen as Mulan walks towards her, hand on the hilt of her sword, cloak billowing in the light wind—her features are pale and her eyes are shadowed with obvious and somewhat concerning fatigue.

"We received word from one of our scouts, they're hostile, dangerous…ruthless."

Swallowing, and offering her water to the other woman, Emma's eyes dart to the sky, her fingers itching to draw her sword as she considers Mulan's words—the need for action, the desire to fight only slightly worrying. "How many are there?"

The warrior's smile is tight and doesn't quite reach her eyes as her gaze sweeps over their small group—amateur soldiers and seasoned veterans alike—with a soft somewhat defeated sigh. "Enough."

* * *

 

They see the smoke first; dark clouds of black billowing up into the otherwise clear and bright sky, signalling destruction and hinting of imminent death.

The flames aren't visible until they're right on top of the town.

Their small party comes to a stop just outside of what had _used_ to be a tiny farming village. It's a horrific sight. Her gaze scanning the still burning huts and the battered bodies littered across the ground, Emma closes her eyes for a moment before dismounting from her horse—heart lodged firmly in her throat.

They're too late.

The sight is shocking, the silence deafening, the smell sickening.

"Fan out, have your weapons ready…make sure to…to check for…for any remaining survivors."

Mulan's words are simple, a faint note of pain laced within them as she speaks in a firm yet quiet tone. And drawing her sword, forcing herself to move forward, Emma wonders how many times, since the war had started, the young woman's come across such a brutal scene—heart aching and blood pounding in her veins as she considers the silent question. She's seen too many torn and battered bodies when working with Evvie to expect that the number is anything but low.

Separating herself from the rest of the group, disregarding the appraising and pointed look Mulan shoots her way, the warrior's burning and searching gaze threatening to strip her of her carefully constructed emotional defenses, she picks her way through the remains of the village, insisting to herself that she's fine, she prepared herself for this.

_She's fine._

Feeling the heat of the still smoldering flames, hearing the crackle and sizzle, she refuses to allow her eyes to linger too long on the burned and bloodied bodies that are strewn across the ground—their frozen faces twisted into horrified expressions of pain and agony.

She pretends she doesn't notice the smaller figures heaped together with the larger ones—tiny hands burned and charred. And she ignores the wave of nausea and the taste of bile that lingers in her throat when for a moment she envisions how frightened and helpless they all must have been.

Moving away from the group, she walks in between two darkened huts, treading slowly. The silver of her sword gleaming, her eyes alert and her ears straining, she struggles to maintain her composure, knowing that a breakdown is exactly what Mulan and the rest of her group are fearing and expecting from her.

She won't give it to her…to any of them.

She won't break…

Even as her eyes force her to see, every gruesome sight forever implanted in her brain; everything gone, destroyed, ruined…

_She won't break._

Goddamn it she won't.

She'll fight.

She'll fight for them all.

And at the thought, at the realization of the pain and suffering the innocent and defenseless people of the tiny village went through, coupled with everything she remembers from the manor—the whispered and horrific stories, the steady stream of injuries, the broken families—her hate for Regina intensifies…

She wants revenge.

Coming around a corner, her boots shuffling through the soft soot covered dirt; noting that most of her group is lingering on the other side of the village, Emma scans the grounds thoroughly once again, her fingers trembling slightly around her weapon as her eyes catch sight of a tiny stuffed bear covered in mud.

It's too much.

And goddammit the wall she'd built around herself begins to waver

She had thought it impenetrable, she had told herself she could remain unaffected…

She had been wrong.

So very, very wrong.

Drawn to the bear, feeling some sort of sick pull, she makes a move to pick it up, unsure why she wants to in the first place, only vaguely hearing the hissing voices in her head that are cursing her for her dark and morbid urge. And blinking back a wave of tears, ignoring the harsh whispers, her fingers hovering just above the toy, she reaches down to grab it, her hand stilling as she suddenly hears the faint sounds of stifled moans drifting to her ears.

Whipping around, her braid nearly smacking her in the face with the sharp movement, Emma's eyes scan the area around her frantically, her ears straining desperately as her gaze roams over the smoldering huts, the burned bodies, and the scattered remains of the once small and lively place. It's only after she waits a heartbeat and then another and another still that she hears the moaning again, something akin to a sniffle followed by a panting grunt just barely rising among the silence of her still burning surroundings. Moving quickly, her eyes snapping behind her for a moment, she briefly debates signaling for help, her fingers clenching her sword so tightly her knuckles have gone white. But seeing that no one is in the immediate vicinity, unwilling to wait or look for help, she makes her way towards the sound, an untouched hut coming into view as she slowly shuffles closer.

_Survivors?_

Hope welling in her chest, tears still stinging at her eyes, she prays to a deity she no longer believes in that she finds someone, _anyone_ , alive amidst the smoking wreckage.

Rounding the corner, the sounds of the moans rising to stuttered cries, ringing in the hazy air, Emma comes to a halt. Words stuck in her throat, eyes wide with horror, she takes in the sight she's stumbled upon as confusion, anger, and despair clash together harshly inside of her.

_No._

_No, no, no, no._

There's a girl, she's lying on the ground, dirt in her hair, blood splattered across her face, her clothes are almost completely torn away. She's crying, silently now, her left arm bent at and odd angle, her body littered with blood and bruises.

So many bruises.

And for a moment she can't look away.

She can't even move.

Everything inside of her is pulsing, begging for her to jump into action, but for a few brief seconds all she can do is stand, numbly staring in silent horror—the girl too pained to notice her, or quite possibly too exhausted to even care.

_Do something!_

_MOVE!_

And then, the girl's head turns, and her eyes widen as she sees Emma; something red hot and flaming coursing through her, she can feel electric and jolting sparks shooting through her body as they make eye contact; and without another thought, without another moment of hesitation, she springs into action, moving towards the girl quickly, her fingers trembling, her legs weak, and her mind in a dark and cruel place as she kneels down beside her in the dried and cold mud.

"Okay." she says it softly, quietly, stopping for a moment to gain her composure. "You're going to be okay." She whispers shakily, her voice croaked and rough as her eyes linger a little too long on the girls torn clothes, her mind drawing up vivid images of the horrors she had most likely faced at the hands of Regina's soldiers.

How many had there been?

One…two…more?

Does it even matter?

"You're going to be okay." She says again, unsure who she's trying to convince as she unclasps her cloak and quickly drapes it over the girl's exposed and dirty form. Glancing behind her, she squints, looking for someone… _anyone_ …from her team, the thick fog of smoke and flame, blocking her vision.

Biting her lip, cursing no one in particular, she shakes her head, the sharp edges of desperation creeping up on her slowly. "Just let me…"

"Leave."

The soft and raspy voice quiets her words and Emma's eyes whip downwards to meet the swollen and damning blue gaze of the girl on the ground.

"I'm—I'm here to help, I'm—"

"I know who you are." Even soft and broken, her tone is dark, her voice hissing as tears run down her dirty face, smudging the mud and blood that's smattered there. "Your picture…it's everywhere… _everywhere._ The queen's men…they destroy towns…ruin lives…looking for _you._ They don't care who they hurt, what they do…" she wavers for a moment, scratched fingers clawing at the dirt beneath her. "I had a family…a good life…I had never even…I'm only fifteen…" turning her head, a low and despairing sob tumbling from her cracked lips, the girl, a mere child really, clenches her eyes shut tight, almost as if it pains her to look at her.

And in that moment Emma wants to run.

Wants to hide.

Wants to yell.

Scream.

Cry.

She feels hatred, stronger and more intense than anything she's felt since Henry's death shoot through her fast, her own self-loathing fast on its heels.

Sniffling, the girl purses her lips, and sucking in a deep and shuddering breath, she opens her eyes once again, tossing another accusing and unforgiving glare her way, barely concealed disgust masking her features and twisting them horribly. "I know who you are _Emma_ …you're the reason this has happened…you're the reason the queen won't stop. You're the reason she lost her son. You're the reason for all of this."

Blame.

Anger.

Pain.

So, so much pain.

It nearly rips her a part, clawing at her from the inside out, hot agony warring with her spiking hatred.

And unable to take it any longer, stumbling to her feet, seeing the girl's lips still moving but not hearing her words, Emma turns—her eyes burning, her throat tightening, and a low hum drowning out everything else around her. Walking away, she leaves the girl, lying on the ground, the muffled sound of her words, her damning cries, echoing behind her as she trips and shuffles her way back through the village.

She can't breathe.

She. can't. fucking. breathe.

Seeing the young boy from her team, she makes her way over to him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him towards her, ignoring his shout of fear and shock as she does. Patrick, his name is Patrick, she registers dimly, watching as his eyes widen and his mouth opens to form a slight O of surprise as she sways heavily on her feet, the world tilting and spinning around her.

_I know who you are._

_I know who you are._

_Emma._

_Emma._

"Survivor." She whispers, her eyes darting to the ground as it wobbles dangerously under her hazy gaze. "Survivor over there…needs help…needs a woman…privacy…give her privacy. No men. She's hurt badly…oh God, no—no men, send Mulan and a nurse…Mae… and…she's over there." She knows her words are stuttered and halted, and she watches as confusion plays out over the boy's features—his eyes searching her face, color rising to his cheeks as she brings her other hand up to grip him tightly, shaking him harshly—fingers digging into the thick and coarse fabric of his shirt, snapping his attention back into focus. "She needs help! Don't you understand? She's hurt. But she's alive!" And dimly over the roaring thoughts in her head, seeing the way he nods fervently, a slight glimmer of fear shadowing his features, she thinks about the mother he'd mentioned days ago, curious if, before all this, he'd been sheltered, wondering how prepared he is for the atrocities of battle and revenge…

Whether he had been happy before all of this had started.

He seems too boyish and innocent for blood and death and rape and wars.

And almost immediately an image of Henry, his toothy smile and hopeful eyes flashes in her head, causing her to release him abruptly.

_I know who you are Emma._

Letting him go with a muffled whimper, she stumbles away from him and heads for the trees, an acidic taste rising in her throat, her stomach churning with disgust and regret. And ignoring the sound of someone calling her name behind her, ignoring the way she can still smell burning flesh—the crackle and sizzle sounding behind her, ignoring the images of the girl battered and beaten lying in the mud, she makes her way to a heavy line of overgrown bushes, swatting branches away from her and stumbling over loose rocks and scattered twigs as she attempts to distance herself from the flames.

_You're the reason she lost her son_

Bending over suddenly, unable to control herself, unwilling to even try—the burn in her throat too painful, the churn in her gut too sickening—she empties the contents of her stomach with a gut-wrenching violence; eyes burning and heart breaking as everything, the reality of the war—the pain and violence and despair it brings—bombards and rushes her all at once.

_You're the reason for all of this._

And with an anguished sob escaping her lips and the seductive promise of revenge against an army, against a grieving mother, against a ruthless queen, flashing in her mind, her legs giving out on her and her fingers fisting into the hard cold dirt of the ground beneath her, she closes her eyes, slumps over, and cries.

* * *

 

They make camp, on a hillside, just short of the woods, miles outside the burning village.

No one looks at her as they set up their tents against the cold wind.

No one talks to her as they eat dried meats and pass around a flask of warming liquor.

And no one questions her when she stands-up abruptly and leaves the group, silently turning in for the night…accusing whispers in a rasped voice and swollen and broken eyes damning her to hell, haunting her as sleep evades her.

* * *

 

It's barely dawn.

There are thin rays of glimmering sunlight peeking through the overly puffy gray clouds hanging low in the sky; their golden beams streaking past the leafless trees, just barely lighting the still shadowed woods that lays ahead of them. Birds are just rousing for the morning, calling to each other with squawking and high pitched songs, squirrels dash and move chattering away while the larger forest animals remain hidden as a whipping wind whirls though the air.

"Run Emma! Run!"

Patrick screams the words at her as he runs by her side, tripping and stumbling through the thick line of trees—the smell of winter crisp and brisk invading her nose as her boots crunch, slide, and pound against the hard and cold dirt. After being ambushed by a group of heavily armed soldiers their, party had fled for the cover of the forest—the image of Mae, the soft-spoken healer, being struck though the heart by a carefully aimed and well shot arrow, flashing in her head as she shifts her grip on her bow and chances a look back. There's a blur of figures not far behind them, the echo of shouts and the distant sound of swords clashing causing her to pause. Squinting she shakes her head, peering through the trees, trying her hardest to focus—it looks like they've stopped. She swears she can hear Mulan's voice ringing out, shouting orders, the others halting and turning to make a stand with her.

"Wait! Wait they've stopped. They've stopped! We have to go back! We have to fight!" she yells it, slowing a little as she tries to see past her fogged vision, attempting to place the moving figures as enemy or ally—Regina's army dressed in black battle gear from head to toe.

"No!"

The boy grabs her then, hands digging into her cloak as he pulls her behind a large boulder, low hanging branches scraping across her cheek and causing her to wince as she stumbles after him, too surprised to react at first.

"We need to get out of here."

Resisting the urge to lash out, knowing that he's scared, and confused and way over his head, Emma forces herself to calm down, her roaring and muddled brain hissing for her to just heed his request and flee, even as another, stronger, part of her screams for her to go back, to stay, to _fight_. "Listen, kid—"

"We can't take them."

She tilts her head to the side, drawing her lip into her mouth as his voice breaks and wavers a little with obvious fear and almost tangible desperation—eyes begging her, body trembling visibly. Shooting him a slightly reassuring smile, one that feels false and forced, she glances around the boulder, trying to slow her breathing, noting how everything seems to have come to a complete standstill. She can make out Mulan and Dylan and a few others as the two sets of warriors face off silently in an arena full of underbrush, fallen leaves, and trees. And then, almost in the blink of an eye, it resumes again, and she watches as both sides charge, angry curses flying as they engage in brutal hand to hand combat—spears and swords, daggers and spiked clubs.

"I'm going back."

"Emma we have to run!"

Pulling her arrow out she raises her bow, a wave of sympathy rushing through her as she takes in the sight of Patrick's still trembling form. "Listen, you do whatever you want, I'm staying… people… _our people…_ are fighting back there, I saw Mulan…"

Peering around the boulder with her, he stares at the fighting group, closing his eyes for a moment before looking back at her with frantic and watery brown eyes. "Don't you get it! It's suicide! They're giving us a shot. Our best chance. She stopped them so that we could get away. So that _you_ could get away…it's what we're supposed to do. You have to live. It's what we've been ordered to do…protect you!"

"No…" trailing off Emma shakes her head, not wanting to believe his words, unwilling to accept the fact that they would sacrifice themselves so that she could flee. "No…why-why would they…"

"You are the princess! I know you don't act like it, I know you don't think of yourself as one…but you are! And I know I'm only a kid to you, but the evil queen wants you…she wants you alive. And you saw what they did to that girl in the village!" His words waver, his tone low, and voice cracking. "If…if they get you…just because they can't kill you doesn't mean…you saw what they did…we have to go! I have to protect you. I swore I would!"

"Hey Patrick." Ignoring the flood of images his words force upon her, the sparking realization that there's more going on than she's aware of, she whispers his name softly, paying no attention to the way her body is shaking and her ears are ringing; instead she moves closer, stopping only when he backs away—the always constant voice inside her head screaming at her to move, begging her to either hurry the hell up and heed his warning or get her ass moving and fight "Hey it's okay, listen—"

It happens in slow motion.

A whistling noise.

A sickening thud.

And she's cut off before she can finish.

Words dying in her throat, Emma can only stare dumbly at Patrick as he flinches suddenly, his face contorting oddly, a look of confusion, evident even in the dim light, crossing his young features before he looks down slowly, her eyes following the movement and growing large as she sees a small dagger impaled deep in his chest.

"Oh God!" She moves to catch him as he falls, but he stumbles back and away from her, his arms flailing out, a gurgling cough bubbling up from his throat as he turns his pained gaze behind her, a dark figure approaching them both.

"Run." he whispers it, his voice weak, as his fingers drift over his chest, dancing across the knife, a whimper escaping his already pale lips, a tear running down his dirty cheek.

_Henry._

_Oh God Henry._

"No." Her throat feels raw, her entire body numb, her mind cruelly taunting her with images of another enchanted land, of another boy stabbed mercilessly in the chest.

_No. No. No. No!_

And watching as he drops to his knees, seemingly unable to hold himself up any longer, Emma shouts out an anguished curse, her eyes misting over and vision going out slightly as she makes a move towards him—everything around her, the soldiers, the fighting, the entire world, fading out and going away for a moment as a choked sob escapes her lips.

_Please no._

It isn't until she sees a blur and a flash of movement, hears the rustling of leaves and the cracking of twigs, that she remembers who she is, where they are, and what is happening…

They're under attack.

She needs to fight.

Quickly raising her bow, pulling the arrow back tight, she spins and lets it go without thinking, watching as is it flies through the air, hitting the approaching soldier right between the eyes, the surprised look on his face fading as he drops on the spot.

It's a sickening thrill.

And without another thought, whispering her apologies to Patrick and promising herself that she'll come back for him, she runs towards the chaos, arrows flying and eyes focused as she throws up her walls and clears her mind, reveling in the rush of blazing heat that burns through her veins each time she hits her target, every time she gets to watch another soldier fall.

She wants blood.

And with the thought resonating throughout her, she goes to grab another arrow, cursing when she realizes she's out. Her hand immediately reaching for her sword, she pauses for a moment when she sees a man coming towards her slowly, a predatory smile dusting his ugly features as he shifts his own weapon from hand to hand—fighting, fierce and intense, still taking place on the outskirts of the woods.

"Looks like I've found myself a pretty little prize."

Clenching her jaw, and narrowing her gaze she shifts her attention back to him, and lifting her blade she tries to remember, past the flashing images of Patrick's nearly lifeless form and over the whirling hum in her ears, everything she's learned, all the ways she's trained and hazed herself, preparing for a moment like this.

Moving closer, boots shuffling through the dried leaves so that they are only a few feet apart, his eyes, the color dark and dull and almost completely emotionless, rake over her once—the slow perusal doing nothing to soothe her anger. "How's about you drop that blade there. No need to hurt yourself, a sword is different form those little arrows you were shooting before. Come and be a good girl and I'll go easy on you." His smile is slow and sickening, "I'll even tell everyone after me to not rough ya up too bad…such a pretty face after all." Taking another step he lifts his sword, the metal glinting threateningly as tilts his head to the side, sizing her up once more. "Then again, I don't think it's your face the boys will be interested in…although a few of em are partial to blondes."

All at once her brain shuts down on her, just for a moment, swollen eyes, dirty blonde hair, and a battered face staring up at her, a burning village, ruined homes, and piles of bodies.

"You sick son of bitch." she breathes it, her words barely above a whisper as she shakes herself from her momentary lapse; and then she's moving, screaming, yelling, howling, cursing him to hell and back as she rushes him fast, their swords clashing terribly, the feeling of metal hitting metal shooting up her arm as he immediately reacts, lifting his weapon and fighting back.

"You like it rough girlie?"

"Shut your goddamned mouth. I'm going to kill you, I'm going to fucking murder you and…"

He charges her before she can finish and she just barely jumps out of the way to avoid a clean swipe to her side, his laughter at her surprised glare and angry grunt only fueling her desire to to hurt, maim…

_Kill._

Darkness edging her vision, a rush of energy pushing her forward, she collects herself again, hammering blow after blow down on his blade, letting her anger drive her on as she forces him back, watching as his eyes widen a little, noting the way his feet shuffle over loose rocks, tripping across overgrown roots and fallen branches as she quickly gains the upper hand.

She wants blood.

It isn't long before, much to his obvious surprise, his blade falls to the ground, an unforgiving punch followed by a kick to his chest and she's standing over him, her sword resting under his chin and pressing into his skin, nicking him just enough for a thin red line to trickle down his neck. Bending down suddenly, straddling him quickly, she presses it further into him, her face mere inches from his, the smell of his breath, sour and putrid, filtering across her face. And it's only as his dull eyes go from smug to fearful that she finds herself pausing, her anger ebbing away to terror as she comes back to herself, swallowing thickly, hand faltering on her weapon as she looks down at him, eyes blinking rapidly, heart racing fast.

"Isn't as easy as you thought it would be…harder than shootin' at people from a safe distance isn't it?" He speaks to her in a rasped tone, hissing the words out, spit shooting out and hanging on his lips as his voice takes on an almost mocking note. "Have you ever looked someone in the eye before you killed him girlie? Have you ever felt the slide of a blade as it ripped through skin and muscle?" He only laughs as she digs the sword a little deeper, words cutting off and body shifting ever so slightly, before he glares at her again. "Do it!"

She hesitates.

And it isn't until she feels a searing pain at her side that she realizes her crucial mistake.

She lost the upper-hand.

Gasping, looking down to see a dagger lodged in her gut, she shakes her head, unwilling to believe the sight, a voice in her head pleading with her to do something, even as she cries out, wincing in pain as the soldier bucks beneath her before headbutting her hard throwing her off of him and sending shock-waves of hurt skittering throughout her body as the knife inside of her shifts. And writhing on the ground she watches through half-opened eyes as he stumbles to his feet a satisfied and dark smile lifting his lips as he takes a step closer to her, everything inside of her tensing as she realizes that this is it.

If she's lucky she'll lose consciousness soon.

If she's lucky he'll only kill her.

Oh God, she's not ready.

He stops.

Eyes shifting over her, focusing somewhere far behind her, she watches through fading vision as his face falls slightly, fear and rage crossing his ugly features as he looks down at her once more before taking a step back. And casting one last look her way, he turns around…

And runs.

The world goes gray, fading out as the sound of pounding feet and shouting voices, the touch of warm hands on her face, and the feel of numbing pain in her side, lulls her to sleep.

* * *

 

"If you let her bloody die I will end each and every one of you!"

There's a stitch and burn in her side, her throat feels dry, and the pounding in her head is almost unbearable.

Keeping her eyes closed she tries not to move, unsure if she even can; her body feels as if its on fire, her limbs heavy and weak.

There's someone next to her, prodding and touching her and she wants to scream and yell for them to stop because it hurts.

Everything fucking hurts.

And with a soft sob, and a gasping breath, she listens, over the pounding in her skull and the dizziness in her brain, to the lilting and broken voice, as it continues to shout and curse; the sound even though angry and pained, comforting her as she slips away.

* * *

 

"Wake up darling."

She knows the voice.

She wants to do as it says.

She sleeps.

* * *

 

Opening her eyes, Emma blinks once, looking around the unfamiliar and dark room; squinting at the figure standing over her, her eyes fluttering closed again before opening once more.

"Emma?"

Focusing her gaze, she waits for her vision to clear a little more, a wave of relief slamming into her hard as she recognizes Mulan, arm in a sling, bandage above her left eye, stepping up to her bed.

"Where-?" She shakes her head, trying to swallow over the dryness in her throat, watching as Mulan nods quickly, understandingly, and hurries to a small table; picking up the jug of water that rests there she pours her a cup. Reaching out unsteady and slightly weak hands Emma accepts it gratefully, paying no attention as she drinks heavily, cool water dribbling down her chin and spilling onto her chest as she does. "Where are we?"

"Safe-house. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

Mulan smiles at that, a tight grin that doesn't quite meet her eyes, moving closer she gestures to her somewhat vaguely. "The healer had a rough time with you. Finally stitched you up, used a couple of spells on the wound, said you should make a full recovery with a little time, care, and patience."

Nodding, Emma takes another sip, her thoughts drifting to her intertwined moments of wakefulness and unconsciousness. "Um Hook? I…when I was out of it…I thought I heard…"

"His group found us…found you…I came across them as they were clearing the trees…"

Mulan's answer is short and clipped, a shade of pained emotion darkening her features as she averts her gaze; and feeling a tingling of anxiety prickling inside of her, Emma stares at her patiently, struggling for another sip of water and ignoring the ache in her side as she she shifts her position ever so slightly, her mind wandering to Patrick, Mae, and the rest of their small group. "Everyone else?"

Mulan's silence has her closing her eyes again.

* * *

 

The healers try to force her to take something for pain and sleep and when she fights them on it, refusing to let herself slink back into the drug-induced state of mind that had claimed her after Henry, Mulan intervenes.

"If you want to get better, get back out there, then you have to cooperate with the people who are trying to help you." She speaks to her in a firm but gentle tone—expression hardened with determination, eyes glimmering with her mutual desire to to jump back into the fray.

Exhausted, Emma relents.

* * *

 

When she wakes again she swears she sees Hook, sitting by her bedside, eyes red and expression drained; her hand is in a warm and tight grip and she feels a sense of gratefulness that he's there, by her side, thumb brushing the back of her hand lightly, voice warm and soothing murmuring words to her softly.

She can't help but wonder if she's dreaming.

Regardless, she doesn't want him to leave.

The next time she wakes up she's alone.

* * *

 

"The manor has fallen."

_Hook._

Sitting up in bed, she looks up as he enters her room, watching as he moves to the foot of the bed with slow and stinted movements; the sight of him bringing a jolt of curious relief crashing through her even as she notes with a twinge of alarm the long, somewhat deep bloodied cut that mars his bearded face, her eyes widening a little as her sleep-deprived brain finally considers his words.

"What?"

"The manor…it's fallen. Regina's forces broke through two nights ago."

Straightening slightly, the twitch in her side barely registering as steady and mounting panic begins to build up inside of her— _Mary Margaret, David, Ruby, Anna, Evvie, Grace_ —she looks him in the eye—clear and steady blue staring back at her unblinkingly, his lips pursed and expression impassive. "What are you saying?"

"She overthrew it. She infiltrated the walls. It's gone. Everything's gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...


End file.
